


what i know, you ain’t had time to learn

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Immortality, M/M, Police Brutality, Racism, Very Much Illegal Activities, i hate cops but davey works for the FBI for plot reasons, jack is a poc, torture sort of? not graphic but it happens, uh jack does murder someone in the very first chapter so that will likely be a recurring theme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: six and a half centuries of boredom, no self-preservation instinct, and one hell of an ego. jack kelly is the toughest case the FBI has ever had to crack.why, for the love of god, would they put a rookie on the case?
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 195
Kudos: 190
Collections: I love these, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am SO excited for this fic! it’s something pretty different from what i’ve done before, so i think it’ll be lots of fun!
> 
> warnings for chapter 1: there’s a mention of murder and some implications of attempted suicide— nothing graphic/intense for either. 
> 
> i hope y’all enjoy!!!

_To my dear friends at the Federal Bureau of Investigation,_

_Please tell whoever's in charge that I'm tired of playing games. If you're gonna try to kill me, you might want to at least hire an operative who can finish the job._

_I'm getting bored of waiting around. If you don't catch me soon, I might just disappear._

_Lots of love,_

_Jack (or is it Francis? I have too many names.)_

-

Jack drops the letter into the mailbox and can't help the grin that crosses his face.

The last agent they sent for him wasn't very bright— the poor thing had thought charging through Jack's front door would be the way to get him. It's unfortunate, really, that Jack had to deal with him the way he did, but that's the circle of life, isn't it? _You try to kill me, I return the favour_ — it's just how things go.

The incident had been upsetting enough for Jack to skip town, though, as he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get the bloodstains out of the carpet, so he'd simply packed up and moved.

He's back in New York now, and he couldn't be happier. This is truly his favourite city in the world. There's always something happening and it's easy to get lost in the crowd— he'll be much harder to track here.

It's a long story, how Jack managed to get an entire branch of the FBI dedicated to finding and killing him. Far too long, actually— he's late for brunch. There's no time for storytelling; he's got places to be.

He pops his earbuds in and takes off down the sidewalk, offering hurried apologies as he bumps into people while trying to weave around them. He's got his favourite sunglasses on, so he hopes he looks really cool and not crazy at all.

He breezes into the cafe about ten minutes after he was supposed to be there. Not too bad, really.

He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head as he notices Crutchie at a table in the corner, smiling and waving at him. 

God, he fucking missed that boy.

"If it isn't Jack Kelly!" Crutchie laughs as Jack sits down to join him. "Man, it's good to see you. It's been way too long."

"Hasn't it?" Jack replies, unable to stop grinning. "I'm so glad to be home. California was cool, but New York is where it's at."

Jack has been on the move for the past three years or so, travelling up and down the west coast. He doesn't like to settle down for long, but Manhattan is sort of his home base. He always finds his way back eventually.

"Okay, I swear you literally look _exactly_ the same as the day we met," says Crutchie, pointing an accusatory finger. "Do you even age? You're just as hot as you were in college. What the fuck is your secret?"

Jack very narrowly avoids the face crack of the century. He's got a lot of secrets, but that's not really a question he'd been expecting.

"Korean skincare," he giggles, after a moment. That's one secret he's willing to share. He really is a fucking skincare nerd. "I'm telling you, that shit is like magic. I even got one of those little fridges for my bathroom."

Crutchie bursts into laughter. It's like they were never even apart.

"Damn, you'll have to give me lessons! I swear, I'm already getting fucking wrinkles at twenty-five." He glances down at his phone for a second, seems to shoot off a quick text, and then tucks it in his pocket, looking back up at Jack with a grin. "I'm so glad you're home. I missed you so much."

They order their food and the conversation rolls on as they catch up— Jack still doesn’t totally understand what engineering is, but Crutchie has some kind of job in the field, and he’s been doing some new treatment that’s working wonders for his MS. It sounds like things have been going pretty well for him.

Jack makes up some bullshit story about why he'd moved home— his landlord out west was an asshole and he was getting bored of life out there— he's careful to leave out any mention of felonies he may have committed.

When it comes time to pay, Jack quickly realizes he doesn't have any cash on him to leave as a tip— he likes to leave cash on the table to make sure it goes right to the server. Okay... he can work with this. He makes sure Crutchie is distracted by paying for his own meal, and shoves his hand in his jacket pocket.

After a few moments of intense focus, he feels five dollars materialize in his fingers.

"I knew it was in there," he chuckles as he sets the money on the table. "I swear, this jacket always has something hiding inside it."

-

His next order of business, upon returning to New York, is to visit family.

He's rather sure Race still lives with Medda, so he figures he might as well just show up and surprise both of them. He's missed them dearly but he's terrible at remembering to call, so they probably don't even know he's back.

He knows the way to Medda's like the back of his hand. It's a snazzy penthouse above her theatre, which she's owned for longer than Jack can even recall. She puts on the craziest niche little off-Broadway shows the world has ever seen, with special effects that Jack will never be able to wrap his head around, despite the fact that he lived with her and watched everything behind the scenes for years.

He sneaks his way to the back door, which he knows will unlock if he wiggles the handle just the right way. It only ever unlocks for people who know how to open it— not the most secure system, but it somehow works. Excitement gets the best of him and he practically runs up the stairs, bouncing on his toes as he knocks on the door to the actual apartment.

It's like Medda can sense that he's there, because the door flies open within moments.

"Jackson!"

"Mama!"

He practically dives into her arms for a hug. Three years without one of her bear hugs is far too long. The familiar smell of her perfume immediately calms him down and reminds him of how safe he feels here at home. There's nowhere he'd rather be.

"What are you doing here!?"

He laughs as they pull away.

"How could I stay away from you for long? I missed you too much!"

She ushers him in, with a stern look reminding him to take his shoes off. He takes a look around— the decor is a little different than when he left, it's crazy how often she redecorates. There's still all the old family pictures on the walls, along with some of Jack's paintings, as those never change.

"Is Racer around?" he asks, as he makes himself comfortable in the living room. "You been keeping him out of trouble?"

She rolls her eyes. 

"I do my best, but trouble just seems to find him. I think he's home, but he's awfully hard to keep track of. He could be anywhere." She turns to yell down the hallway. "Race! Come out here, would you!?" There's no response, so she turns back to Jack and shrugs. "He might not be home. He's like a stray cat. He comes and goes whenever and shows up when there's food around. He knows I've been baking cookies all morning, so wherever he's at, he'll probably be back before long."

This makes Jack instantly turn his gaze to the kitchen, and Medda smacks him lightly on the back of the head.

"Stick around for lunch, and you can have some after."

They spend the next half hour or so catching up about Jack's Californian adventures, until Race finally strolls in. There he is, in all his teenage glory, with his longboard tucked under his arm. He does a double take when he sees Jack sitting on the couch.

"No way! What the fuck are you doing here?"

Medda seems to want to call out his bad language, but she just sighs and shakes her head as Race comes running to tackle his older brother.

"Jesus," grumbles Jack, while wrapping him up in a hug. "Did you miss me or something?"

"No," replies Race, his face pressed into Jack's shoulder. "You're annoying and ugly."

Jack can't help but laugh. How tight this hug is clearly contradicts Race's words, but they're both obviously too cool to admit that they've missed each other.

"Good to see you too," Jack chuckles as they finally let go and Race settles himself next to him on the couch. "How's life?"

Race shrugs.

"The usual. Boring, but I try to make the best of it."

Jack certainly feels him on that one. He loves New York, don't get him wrong— but living in one city for long enough, no matter how big, can get a bit monotonous. That's probably part of why Jack moves around so much, and definitely part of why he gets himself into so much trouble. Life just gets too _boring_.

"Well now I'm back, so things are about to get way more interesting." He reaches over to ruffle Race's hair. "Don't you worry."

-

"Are those silly cops still after you?"

It's after lunch now, and they're all snacking on fresh-baked cookies. Medda has gone all concerned-mother— because why wouldn't she?

Jack can't help but laugh.

"They're doing their best. It's cute." He shrugs. "I'm having fun with it."

Medda shakes her head, disappointed, but Race looks entirely impressed. A fifteen year-old's approval is hard to come by, so Jack will happily take the ego boost this gives him.

"You ought to stop messing with them," scolds Medda. "What do you suppose you'll do if you get caught?"

Jack simply shrugs. He hasn't really thought too hard about it.

"Escape, fake my death and move to Europe or something, I don't know. I'll make a vacation out of it."

"Can I come?" asks Race, through a mouthful of cookie. "That sounds fun— I want to go to Europe. We could go on a food tour!"

Jack has to stifle a giggle as Medda sighs exasperatedly. She's been putting up with the two of them out of the kindness of her heart for so many years, and all she gets in return is this ridiculous bullshit. He's almost sorry for it, but not quite.

"Well, I'm not coming to rescue you if you finally get in trouble— either of you," she says, shaking her head. "You'll be on your own if you finally get caught."

Jack laughs and shrugs as he takes another cookie from the plate on the coffee table.

"Don't even worry about it, Ma. I mean, what are they gonna do? Kill me?"

-

 _Manhattan, 1895_.

"Who the fuck are you?"

The skinny little blonde kid is staring at Jack, and he doesn't look particularly impressed. 

"I could ask you the same question," Jack replies, folding his arms over his chest. "I saw that, y'know. You just jumped off a damn building— that woulda killed any normal fella."

The kid's eyes go wide in a slight panic. He doesn't seem to know what to say, but he clenches his jaw a little in an attempt to look tough.

"I'm good at landing," he finally says. "It's none of your business."

Jack raises an eyebrow.

"Good enough to survive a six story fall, huh?" He almost laughs at the absurdity of it. "How old are you, kid?"

A beat of silence.

"Fifteen."

Jack studies his face for a moment and nods. He's rather sure he knows exactly what this kid's deal is.

"You been fifteen for a long time, ain't you? Woke up one day and you just didn't get any older?"

The boy's faux-intimidating expression quickly falls. He looks something between scared and relieved now, but he nods nonetheless.

"A hundred years," he whispers, after looking around to make sure no one is listening. They're fairly secluded in a back alley anyways, where he probably hadn't expected anyone to see him jump off the roof. "More than that, even. I dunno what happened. I just _can't_ die."

Jack's heart breaks a little for this poor kid, who's been wandering around for an entire century, confused and probably alone. Fifteen is an unfortunate place to stop aging; he'll be stuck as a child forever. Jack doesn't even take a second to consider it— this boy is his little brother now.

"I'm just like you, alright?" Jack says, doing his best to be reassuring, like any older brother ought to be. "I know someone else who is too. If you'd like, you can come have dinner with us tonight." He holds out a hand to shake. "My name's Jack, and I've been twenty-one for a little more than five hundred years. I can't die either. You're not alone."

"I'm Anthony," the kid says, as he takes Jack's hand. He finally cracks a little smile. "But most folks don't call me that. I got lots of nicknames."

Jack can't help but grin. He likes this kid already. Just like that, their little family is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaa!!! next chapter we’ll be introduced to davey and the plot should start rolling along a little!
> 
> leave a comment or some kudos if you like it so far! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an introduction to an anxiety-ridden FBI agent, his incredibly hot supervisor, and his mysterious new neighbour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to chapter two! time to meet davey!!
> 
> no warnings for this one, unless you’re a sufferer of extreme secondhand embarrassment, like myself. you might cringe a little at poor davey.
> 
> enjoy!!!

_Hi again, Mr. FBI,_

_Is it old-fashioned of me to assume whoever is reading this letter is a man? My apologies. Feel free to let me know how you'd like to be addressed._

_Anyways, I just wanted to send back the last guy who tried to kill me's badge. I kept it for a while to see if anyone would give me free stuff— did y'all know some places will give you free coffee and donuts? I felt bad about lying though, so here it is now. Don't worry, I made sure to clean all my fingerprints off so it doesn't tarnish in the mail!_

_Let's catch up soon,_

_Your favorite mystery man ;)_

-

David Jacobs is certain he's about to get fired.

He's sitting in a board room with his boss and his supervisor, and neither of them have said a word. He's practically shitting his pants.

Who the hell gets fired from the FBI!? He passed all the tests and intense interviews to get this job, and he's only been here for a few months. He pretty much just does paperwork that the more experienced people don't have time for— how could he have fucked up so badly that he's been called into a meeting like this?

Spot, his supervisor, is rifling through papers as their boss, Mr. Snyder, hands them to him. He's just nodding as he reads them, still not saying anything. This is the most terrified Davey has been in a very long time.

"Agent Jacobs," Spot finally says. "I'm glad you could join us."

"I'm, uh, glad to be here," Davey replies, but it comes out sounding more like a question. Jesus, he's so fucking awkward.

Spot barely contains a laugh as he hands Davey a folder. They're sort-of friends when they're not in such a professional environment— they've gone for drinks after work a few times, and things of the sort. This probably feels just as weird for Spot.

"Before we begin," starts Mr. Snyder, who Davey is _actually_ terrified of, "it's very important that nothing we discuss leaves this office. It's all completely confidential."

Davey gulps and nods. _What the fuck is going on?_

"Yes sir, understood."

He's not sure if he should open the folder Spot has handed him, so he just holds onto it for now. It's got the FBI logo stamped on the front, along with a _classified information_ label.

"Wonderful. Now... you'll need to listen very closely. We'll only go over this once." Snyder is a very intimidating man. This is the first time Davey has ever had an actual conversation with him. "You're being assigned to one of our most top-secret cases."

This can't be real. Davey nearly chokes right then and there. His first case, and it's a _big_ one? This has to be some kind of mistake.

"Me?" he squeaks. "Sir, not to question authority or anything, but I... well, I don't really know what I'm doing... per say. I mean, I'm excited! Don't get me wrong— thank you so much for the opportunity! I just—"

Oh god, he's embarrassing himself again. He's cut off by a laugh from Spot, who immediately tries to regain his composure— even he's scared of Snyder.

"Wasn't I right?" Spot says, once he's swallowed the urge to giggle. Davey is incredibly confused. "No one is going to clock that he's a fed. He's perfect for going undercover."

Wait, what!? Davey struggles to remain calm while Snyder stares him down for a moment, which is incredibly intimidating. The old man finally nods.

"I suppose so. Good call, Conlon." He pauses for a moment, looking back and forth between the two of them, before pushing himself up from his chair. "I'll let you give him the details." Before he turns to leave, he takes a step closer to Spot and points a stern finger at him. "If he fucks this up, you're both fired."

And then he walks right out of the room. Davey swears he can hear Spot let out a relieved breath as soon as the door closes. 

"Okay," Spot sighs after a moment. He opens one of the folders on the table and leans back in his chair. "Let's get right into it."

-

The details Davey gets are... minimal. A lot of the information is classified, so he's really just getting the bare essentials.

There's a guy, and he's somewhere, and he did something. He's probably in New York City. They don't even know his real name. That's essentially it. Davey is now responsible for finding him, in a city of eight million people.

They've got a picture, at least— it's rather grainy but it's enough to make out most of the details of the man's face. He looks awfully young, so Davey has to wonder what on earth he could've done in his lifetime to warrant an FBI investigation this intense.

Spot won't say anything about it when he asks.

"All I can tell you is that he's dangerous. When you find him, you can't go right in for the arrest. Your mission, for now, is just to gather intel and get on his good side. Bide your time."

Davey makes a very deliberate effort not to show how scared he is. He's not sure it works very well. 

"And if I don't find him, we're both fired," he states, echoing what Snyder had said earlier. "This is fucked up."

Spot nods.

"Sure is." He's an awfully intimidating guy, but now that Davey has known him a few months, it's clear that he's actually a sweetheart. He's just... misunderstood. He offers a small smile. "You're not so bad to work with, at least. I'll be your main contact to report back to— you won't even have to deal with the big guy."

"Thank god," Davey chuckles. "He's certainly... scary."

This gets Spot to laugh too. He's got a really cute smile, Davey notes, which makes him want to give himself a smack on the wrist. There’s always been a little… tension between him and Spot. It’s not appropriate for work, though, so he tries to save any non-professional feelings for their occasional hangouts outside of the office. They’re both on the same page that nothing will really ever happen between them, so it’s fine to still be a little attracted to him, right?

"I know, right?" Spot groans, still laughing a little. "I avoid him as much as I can, but he seems to like me, so it's getting harder. At least being on his good side gets me promoted."

They both laugh again, and Spot finally closes the folder in front of him, before peeking at his watch.

"We're off in ten minutes. Want to go have a drink before you're officially on your first mission?" he asks with a grin. “My treat.”

"Ugh, a drink is exactly what I need right now. I’m one hundred percent down."

-

After about a week of training, Davey finds himself at his new apartment in Manhattan, unloading boxes from his new car— both provided by the FBI. He's lived in Brooklyn his whole life, so a new borough should be an interesting change in environment.

The plan is fairly simple. He's still David, just to keep things easy, but he's been assigned a new last name. He now works at an alleged "accounting firm", which is actually just a secret satellite office for the same branch of the FBI that Davey works for. He's got a bunch of new clothes, new glasses, and a new haircut, to be as immersed in his new identity as possible and to create less chances of being recognized by anyone who already knows him.

All he was allowed to tell his family was that he'll be gone indefinitely on a mission. They don't know where he is, and he's not allowed to contact them— if he doesn't get himself killed by this mysterious perp, his mother is certainly going to kill him for missing her birthday dinner next week. He's the only one of his siblings living in New York at the moment— Les is away at college in Virginia, and Sarah lives in Canada— so now none of the children are going to be there. Whoops.

The apartment building is pretty nice, he notes as he carries one of his final stacks of boxes up to his place. Fairly modern and upscale, with a pretentious-looking coffee shop in the lobby. Apparently his undercover identity is rich as hell.

"Oh my god, so sorry!"

Davey stumbles as someone bumps into him, making one of the boxes in his arms fly to the ground. It's full of clothes, thankfully, so nothing breaks.

The guy had been walking with headphones in and sunglasses on, which is a little odd for being inside the building. He likely just hadn't seen Davey coming around the corner. 

"Don't worry about it," Davey laughs awkwardly, already leaning down to pick up the box, while trying to balance the two others in his arms. "I'm so clumsy."

"It was totally my fault," the man replies, pulling out a headphone and crouching down to grab the box before Davey can. "Here, the least I can do is carry it to wherever you're going."

"Oh, you don't have to—" He cuts himself off because the guy has already picked up the box, so he'd just be making it more awkward by asking for it back. Jesus, he'd told himself his undercover persona, the new David, was going to be someone without crippling social anxiety. So far, he's struggling to pull it off. "I mean, alright, thanks! I'm, uh, just moving in down the hall here."

"I figured as much," the guy laughs. "You know, with the boxes and all."

Right. God, Davey is such an idiot. Obviously he's moving— why else would he be carrying stacks of boxes? An hour into the operation and he's already off on the wrong foot, this is awful.

"Oh yeah," he chuckles, trying to resist the urge to curl up into a ball of cringe and never face anyone again. "Uh, do you live here?"

Stupid question. Why would he be walking in the hallway if he didn't live here? He's so _fucking_ stupid.

Okay. That's unnecessary. He's been working on the whole negative self-talk thing— it's time to try and let the angry thoughts fly away. He can do this. He was just asking a question to make conversation. It wasn’t stupid. _Fuck_.

"Yep, just down the hall and around the corner," the guy replies, looking somewhat amused at Davey's awkwardness. "Where about are you moving from?"

Davey feels his own heart pound in his throat as he realizes this is the first lie he'll have to tell as part of his undercover identity.

"I'm from Philly," he says, as smoothly as he possibly can. He'd worked with Spot to make the story as true as possible— he graduated from UPenn just a few years ago, so he’s _technically_ kind of actually from Philly. "I just got a job down in the financial district.”

“Oh wow.” The man whistles under his breath, obviously impressed. “Smart guy, huh?”

Davey immediately blushes, but does his best to play it off. He knows he’s smart— he went to an Ivy League and then got hired by the FBI, and an IQ test he took in high school told him he’s technically a genius— but he still feels awkward whenever anyone mentions it.

“Just good with numbers,” he chuckles as they finally arrive to his door. “This one’s mine. Thanks so much for carrying that. Uh, I guess you can just come in and set it down.”

He leads the way into his fairly empty apartment, full of plain-looking furniture and cardboard boxes. He sets his own boxes on the ground and the mystery man sets the extra box on top of them. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you!” the guy says, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head and holding out a hand to shake. “I’m Jack. I’m just a few doors down— let me know if you ever need anything. I know how scary a new city can be.”

Davey swears his stomach nearly drops right out of his asshole. He recognizes that face, now that the glasses are out of the way. He’s studied the little picture Spot had given him for _hours_ over the past few days. Holy fucking shit.

This man looks a hell of a lot like his target.

“I’m, uh—" His voice dies in his throat for a moment and he coughs to cover it up. “I’m David. It’s been great to meet you. I… um, I might take you up on that help sometime— I’m horrible with directions.”

The only consolation Davey can offer himself for that mess of a sentence, as he shakes Jack’s hand, is that he _definitely_ doesn’t sound like cop. Maybe he’s doing exactly what he needs to do— social anxiety to the rescue.

Jack laughs, short and abruptly.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around! I’ve gotta get going, but have fun unpacking! If you don’t mind, maybe I’ll pop by with a housewarming gift later.” He turns to head out the door and waves. “Catch ya later, Davey!”

The moment the door shuts, Davey has to lean on the wall to stay upright. 

That was certainly not what he expected his highly-dangerous, FBI-most-wanted, classified information perp to act like. Maybe it wasn’t him— confirmation bias, or something. Davey was subconsciously seeking out his target, so maybe his mind made his new neighbour look more like him than he really does.

Okay… staying calm. Even if it _was_ him, he doesn’t seem that scary, which is good. He’d seemed more like a cool hipster than a hardened criminal, but maybe that’s what makes the guy so hard to track.

God, he really just needs to stop overthinking for a while. Maybe he’ll crack open the wine that Spot had sent as a good-luck gift while he unpacks. Heaven knows he could use it.

-

_Dublin, Ireland. 1752._

Francis Sullivan. That’s a good name. 

It’s the dorkiest name possible, of course, but he’s trying to lie his way into Trinity College. He’s got to sound smart, so Francis it is.

He doesn’t particularly care about becoming some kind of scholar— he’s simply curious about what they’re teaching kids these days in the faculty of arts. He himself had learned to paint from the masters themselves a good three hundred years ago, but maybe there’s newfangled techniques out there that he’s not aware of. He’s always interested in becoming a better artist.

He’ll probably take off to America once he gets bored of this— he’s heard all kinds of things about life in the colonies. The land is full of Puritans, apparently, which is sort of lame, but maybe he’ll entertain himself by making them think he’s a witch of some kind. He _has_ learned to do magic, after all.

It just sort of happened one day, the ability to make little things appear in his hands when he thinks hard enough about it. Maybe it’s a reward from the universe for sticking around for this long, maybe it’s a four-hundredth birthday gift from the Father above. Who knows?

He takes a glance down at himself to make sure he looks presentable, before he walks into the university campus and pretends he’s supposed to be there. He looks fine, he supposes, but he’ll certainly appreciate when these silly breeches go out of style. Don’t even get him started on those ridiculous wigs that men of status wear— he’s vowed to never put one of those stupid things on his head. He’s lucky he’s not rich enough to have to worry about formal attire.

Anyways, here he goes. He’s a fancy university man now, and he’s called Francis. This ought to be a interesting new adventure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here he is!! he’s got an anxiety problem and a bit of a crush on spot, but he’s doing his darn best.
> 
> we also got another look into jack’s past! i’m enjoying playing with the flashback element, so expect to see many more of those.
> 
> comments and kudos are very much appreciated!! if you have any predictions, i’d to hear them! they may even end up as a part of the story ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> race is a pyromaniac in the making, and davey uses his detective brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update!! as per usual, i post pretty often for the first few chapters, but it’ll probably slow down. there’s a lot of plot twists and whatnot ahead, so i’ll be taking my time to make sure i can pull it off!
> 
> anyways, only warning for this one is a lil bit of gun violence, and discussion of death (as to be expected in a fic about immortality lol)
> 
> enjoy!

_Hey there Feddy,_

_it alright if I call you that? It's short for Federal, of course, since I presume that's your first name. Federal B. Investigation, Mr. Investigation, Feddy-B— take your pick._

_Anyways, I still feel pretty bad about our last in-person encounter, back in California. I hope you guys learned something from it: I'm a lot harder to kill than you think I am and I don't mess around. Please think twice before you send another unfortunate agent after me. I might not decide to play fair._

_That's all for now. Hope all is well with you guys. Catch any aliens lately? I heard you're the ones in charge on that front._

_Sending hugs and kisses!_

_A Man of Many Names ;)_

-

Jack Kelly hates modern music.

He might sound like a grandpa for saying that, but he'll stand by it. His tastes are a bit stuck in time, since there's just too many different things to keep up with these days. He's only just figured out how to use Instagram, and now all the cool kids (ie. his teenage brother) are listening to rap music too? He's not sure he can handle it. 

_Modern_ is subjective, of course, when one has been kicking around for the better part of a millenium. Arguably, his music preferences are rather up to date in comparison to his actual age— just maybe a bit odd for a twenty-one year-old of this century.

He's finally recovered his record collection from where he'd been storing it at Medda's place, and he's got an authentic record player straight from the sixties, so he's plenty happy to stick to his vintage tastes. It's a trend to be old-fashioned now, isn't it?

" _You keep playing where you shouldn't be playing_ ," he sings to himself, as he scrubs some dishes in the sink. " _And you keep thinking that you'll never get burned. Ha!_ " He does a little dance as he sets a plate on the drying rack. " _Well I just got me a brand new box of matches, yeah. And_ — Oh. Okay."

His phone is ringing on the counter, and Race's contact photo is filling his screen. His darling brother very rarely calls, so it's probably important. He quickly dries his hands and turns his music off as he presses his phone to his ear.

"What the fuck do you want?" he asks, not even saying hello. "If you broke something, I'm not coming over to fix it. You're on your own."

" _What_?" asks Race, on the other end. " _No, I didn't break anything! I just have a question_." He pauses, and takes Jack's silence as a cue to continue. " _What do I do... if Mom has been trying to teach me that magic shit that you and her are so good at, and I was trying to practice, but all I can do is set things on fire?_ "

Now, that sounds absolutely absurd, but Jack has learned not to question it at this point. Race has ridiculously terrible luck, and it really shouldn't come as a surprise anymore.

"Fire?" Jack asks, quite sure he sounds more exasperated than anything. "Like, what is it you're _trying_ to do? Because setting things on fire with magic is actually pretty impressive, if that's the skill you're going for."

Race sighs dramatically.

" _Mom wanted me to try that thing you do, where you make stuff show up in your hand. She told me to try it with a pencil, so I held my hand out and thought about a pencil, and then my hand was on fire. I don't think I'm doing this right_."

"Did it burn you!?"

He can practically see Race's eye roll through the phone.

" _Well, what do you think, Jack? It's_ fire. _What does fire usually do when you touch it? Weren't you a caveman at some point? Like, I think that's rule number one: fire is hot_."

"Hey— I'm not that old! I thought maybe since the fire came out of your hand, you'd be immune or something!" he sputters. "So you burned your hands?"

" _They're not that burnt, it didn't really hurt,_ " Race concedes. " _I'm being kind of dramatic. It mostly just scared me— I was expecting to be holding a pencil, and then I was holding a flame like reverse-Elsa or something. I don't even know how it happened_."

Jack sighs. He truly doesn't understand how the whole magic thing works— he just figured it out one day when he was particularly poor and hungry, and thought he might like something to eat. A slice of bread was just there in his hand all of a sudden, out of nowhere.

He's probably more powerful that he's aware of— he simply hasn't tried to do much more than materializing little things. Medda can do all kinds of magic that Jack can't even comprehend, so he knows it's possible, he just hasn't bothered to learn.

"You might not be focusing hard enough," Jack offers. "You really have to picture what it is that you want to show up— if you can't see it perfectly in your mind, it won't work. Try looking at a picture of a pencil and then trying to materialize it."

" _Okay, I'm putting you on speakerphone_." There's some rustling as Race puts his phone down, and Jack does the same so he can start putting clean dishes away. " _Alright... I googled a picture of a pencil, I'm staring at it... Fuck! Oh Jesus!_ "

Jack jumps a little when Race shouts, nearly dropping a bowl.

"What happened!?"

" _The pencil is on fucking fire! What is going on!?_ "

Jack feels a little bad about it, but he bursts into laughter. It's adorable to him that Race is finally learning magic— it takes a couple of centuries to figure out, and Race is only a little over two hundred years old. He's practically a baby! Of course he's not going to nail it on the first try, especially when he's got the attention span of a goldfish. 

"You're okay," Jack tries to reassure through his laughter. "Just relax. Give it a rest and try again another time— I'll come over tomorrow and we'll see if we can't figure it out. Maybe you're overthinking it."

" _I'm so mad_ ," Race grumbles. " _This is too har_ d."

The line goes dead. Okay, then. God, teenagers are confusing.

-

Now, Davey isn’t an idiot. He knows the most dangerous criminals can hide in plain sight— they’re not the people you might expect.

However, he’s _really_ having a hard time believing Jack is his target.

A plate of cookies on his first night here, an invitation out for coffee to get to know each other better (that Davey has yet to take him up on), and all kinds of offers to help with whatever Davey needs… this man _cannot_ secretly be a felon. He’s too goddamn nice.

 _That’s what people said about Ted Bundy_ , he reminds himself. _Jack could be getting on your good side for a chance to murder you._

That’s doesn’t seem right, though. Davey knows he’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s good at reading people— he simply doesn’t see Jack as a threat. He’s not getting any kind of sense of bad intentions. 

He’s sitting in his living room, sipping on a cup of tea and poring over his case file. He’s been sent a stack of letters that his mystery perp has sent to the FBI headquarters— there’s a good dozen or so, and he’s only now getting a chance to read them.

The guy is cocky, that’s for sure. Whatever it is he did, he’s pretty confident he won’t get caught for it. He plays it friendly in the letters, like he’s catching up with a friend, but it’s just subtle taunting and antagonizing— he’s playing the long game and he knows he’s winning. He signs off with different names, which Davey is compiling a list of:

_John_

_Cowboy_

_Francis_

_Jorge_

_Jean_

_Giovanni_

_Jack_

God damn it. The fact that Jack is one of the aliases really isn’t helping Davey’s neighbour’s case. The trend of J names or similar sounds is pointing to the idea that one of those is probably his real name— that’s where he’s pulling inspiration from. This isn’t looking great.

He pulls the photo out to study again. That is very much Jack’s face. There’s no denying it at this point.

He sighs and drops the photo to the floor. He’s almost definitely living two doors down from some kind of serial killer. This is fucked.

-

A bigger problem than Jack probably being a murderer is the fact that he’s so damn _hot_ that Davey is afraid to even make eye contact with him— it’s like looking directly into the sun. It feels like he’s meant to be admiring him from afar; he looks like a fucking Greek god.

To be fair, he’d felt rather similarly about Spot when they first met, and he got over it… maybe the problem is more that Davey is shy and terrified of attractive people, but that’s neither here nor there. The issue at hand is that Davey _needs_ to make friends with Jack in order to complete his mission, and he’s never going to be able to do that if he clams up every time he tries to talk to him.

They’re in the elevator at the same time, early on a Monday morning, and Davey is sweating. He’s in an enclosed space with Jack. He’s going to fucking die.

“First day of work?” Jack asks, with that stupid goddamn confident smile. “I like the suit, you look ready to go. You’re gonna crush it.”

Why is he so nice? Davey’s not sure how he’s ever going to bring himself to arrest him.

“Yep,” Davey replies, trying not to panic. “Just hoping I don’t get lost.”

Jack laughs and adjusts his messenger bag on his shoulder— it looks like he’s on his way to work as well. He’s dressed casual, but smart, wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, making his arms look absolutely insane. Davey takes a moment to worry for his blood pressure.

“You’ll be fine,” Jack chuckles. “Google Maps is a lifesaver— it tells you what train to take and then exactly where to go! I’d offer to help, but I work on the Upper East Side so we’re headed in opposite directions.”

“Oh, what do you do for work?” Davey asks, jumping on the opportunity to not be the topic of conversation anymore. He has to write his first report to Spot when he gets to the office, so collecting as much information as possible would certainly be good. 

“This and that,” Jack replies with a shrug, which is ridiculously vague. “I move around a lot. I’m doing some art restoration for a museum at the moment. You know, touching up the old paintings.”

Okay… interesting. Maybe he’s secretly an art thief— not a serial killer. This mission would certainly be a lot less frustrating if Davey were authorized to know why the fuck Jack is being investigated.

The elevator dings and the doors open to the lobby. Jack checks his watch and his eyes go wide.

“Shit, I need to go catch the train! Good luck at work!”

And then he’s off, jogging out of the building. He runs like an athlete, or maybe a soldier, Davey notes— he squares his shoulders and stands up tall, taking long strides. He’s not sure if that means anything, but it’s certainly interesting.

-

_Omaha Beach, Normandy, France. 1944._

His ears are ringing. 

If he were capable of dying, he’d certainly be dead right now. He sort of wishes he could die at this point— war _sucks_. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

Everything hurts, and he’s soaking wet and freezing cold from running up the beach. He should move, get up and keep fighting, but he just got shot with a goddamn German machine gun and the wound is taking a second to heal itself. This isn’t exactly the kind of thing he can just walk off.

This might be a good time to fake his death somehow. If he could just figure out a way to get out of here and go unnoticed, he could go missing in action and go hide somewhere off the grid for a couple years. They’d assume he died, obviously… once again, he just got shot with a _machine gun_.

Waves are lapping at his feet. The tide will come in soon. Anyone around him who isn’t dead yet will probably drown— this is absolutely horrific. It does, however, mean that no one will come looking for survivors— if he stays face-down in the sand long enough, he’ll be able to get out of here.

Alright. There’s the plan. He’ll play dead until it’s safe to move, and then he’ll find a way to make himself disappear. He’ll be presumed dead, and he’ll just have to play it safe for a while. He’ll probably look like a zombie, walking around covered in dirt and blood— but maybe anyone who happens to see him will think they saw a ghost.

God, he is _so_ going to dodge the next draft. Fuck this.

-

 _Present Day_.

Davey is sitting in his new office, trying to put the events of the last couple days to paper.

He already misses catching up with Spot in person— he’s always sort of had trouble making friends, and Spot was one of the only people at their headquarters that he was actually comfortable with. They’re the youngest people in their department, both twenty-five, while everyone else is middle-aged and stuck-up. There’s a similar vibe in this satellite office too— it doesn’t seem like anyone plans on taking Davey seriously.

He sighs as he starts to draft a report. It’s still crazy that he just happened to run into his target on the first day, and move in down the hall from him no less. He’s still sort in awe of it as he starts to write it all down.

He adds a note at the end that Spot should come meet him for coffee sometime in the apartment building’s cafe— it’s not a date, of course. It’s just business. Maybe they’ll run into Jack or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are rolling along now! characters are starting to establish themselves and the plot is starting to progress a bit!
> 
> please please please leave a comment! 
> 
> til next time!! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jack and crutchie gossip, and davey puts his cooking skills to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y’all! hope you’re all keeping safe and healthy!
> 
> slight warning for this chapter: there’s a description of a panic attack, and vomiting is mentioned, just in case those are things you need to mentally prepare for!
> 
> enjoy chapter 4!!!

_Dear Federal Bureau of Instigation,_

_Did you catch the pun? It's because you're always instigating bullshit with me— I don't want to mess with you guys, but you keep fucking with me!_

_Actually, it seems like you guys have backed off lately, which I appreciate. It's been nice just living my life without some annoying secret agent or whatever trying to— forgive if I'm using this wrong— "kill my vibe." I learned that one from a teenager._

_I just thought I'd write to say thanks! Let's keep up this trend of minding our own business. Keep catching aliens, or whatever it is you do._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Jason (that's a new one!)_

-

"A cute guy just moved in a few doors down. I don't know what to do with myself."

Jack is laying on his couch, upside-down with his feet waving in the air. Crutchie is sitting on the floor, rolling a blunt on the coffee table.

"How cute?" Crutchie asks, not looking up. "Like... let's be shallow for a minute. Be a bitch if you have to. Scale of one to ten."

"God, you're horrible," Jack laughs. "Okay, uh... let's say: face is a solid eight, at least, and body is a seven. Cute— but not, like, _sexy_. Really tall and gangly, but I feel like he's secretly buff under his snazzy little suits."

Crutchie whistles, before picking a blunt up to lick the paper and seal it. 

"Damn, lucky you. Gonna climb him like a tree?"

Jack snorts out an embarrassing laugh. 

"We'll see. He's a walking anxiety attack, so I don't see him being down for a chill one night stand."

"Then _date_ him," Crutchie offers with an eye roll. "I don't know what your problem with dating is, but it's not impossible. Just ask him out."

He passes a completed blunt to Jack, who very subtly materializes a lighter in his hand as he shifts to sit upright. He lights it, takes a drag, and sighs.

"I don't do relationships, I hate commitment. He's probably not even into guys anyways. He might have a girl back in Philly."

"Finch wasn't into guys," Crutchie laughs. "I changed his mind. You just have to be persuasive. Five years strong, now."

Jack can recall the night they met Finch, the frat boy of Crutchie's dreams. They were college juniors and he was a senior, and they were all drunk out of their damn minds in some pizza place in the middle of the night. Crutchie had gotten his number and simply been very persistent throughout the next few weeks of text conversations, which ultimately worked out in his favour. Jack, at this point, is just waiting for the day they get engaged.

"I'm sorry I can't work gay magic like you," Jack sighs, almost laughing at the irony of the statement. "I'm perfectly happy just sleeping around."

Crutchie sighs dramatically as he lights a blunt for himself.

"I don't get how you can do no-strings-attached _every_ time— I mean, what's your body count?"

Jack's eyes go wide. That question came out of nowhere. 

"My what!?"

Really, he doesn't even _know_ his body count— he fought in two world wars, and he's dealt with a number of FBI agents over the years, so it's at least in the dozens— and how would Crutchie even know he's killed anyone in the first place? Did he give something away somehow? He's certain he doesn't act like a murderer, he tries to keep it under the radar. He doesn't even _like_ killing people, and—

"Like, how many people you've _slept_ with, idiot," Crutchie clarifies, with a laugh. "I wasn't implying that you're a serial killer, oh my god."

Okay, that's a number that Jack doesn't know either. He doesn't even know what a realistic lie might be, so he just shrugs.

"Well, I mean, I don't keep a tally. It's definitely up there, though. A lot of pretty boys and girls who could step on me."

"Good to know you have a type," Crutchie giggles. "I still think you should try to date the cute neighbour, though. It might be good for you to settle down for a bit."

-

_Manhattan, New York, 1905._

Their apartment is quiet and simple.

It's nicer than anything Jack could've ever hoped to afford by honest means, since times are hard for a lot of folks these days, and he's been trying to live a normal life for a while now. It's small, but they don't need anything bigger. It's lovely for what it is. 

Jack Kelly, his newest alias, is a poor but honest fellow, and he'd spent a number of years using his baby-face to fit in with a gang of newsboys. Race had introduced him to the job— it was how he was getting by before they met, and while it was hard work, he seemed to enjoy it. Jack had come along to check it out once and then just been welcomed into the family without any questions, so he stayed.

And then he met Katherine.

He still can't believe that fairytale romance had really happened to him. From flirting with her at Medda's show, to the bump in the road that was finding out who her father was, to deciding to stay a little longer in New York, just for her— he ought to write a storybook about it someday.

He's really never settled down for this long before. In all his hundreds of years, he's never been married, but here he is. There's just something about Katherine that feels different— it's like they were made for each other.

He knows it can't last forever, but what's wrong with living in the moment for a while? He'll cross the bridge of the whole not-aging issue when it becomes a little more pressing. He'll grow a beard, change his haircut, do what he can to look older as time goes on, just so he can stay by Katherine's side for as long as possible.

"What are you thinking so hard about, darling?"

She's walked up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, rubbing gently. He turns to look at her. 

"Just how happy I am. Ain't ever expected to have a life this nice, with a doll like you by my side."

"Oh, hush," she laughs, making her way around the back of the couch to sit next to him. "I could say the same to you— I never expected to have such a sweetheart of a husband."

She intertwines their hands and leans into his side. Her hair is falling out of her up-do, hanging in soft curls around her face, and she’s got flour on her cheeks— they've been trying their hands at baking all morning, hoping to surprise her parents at dinner tomorrow. Kath had grown up with a kitchen staff preparing everything for her, and Jack quite simply never learned to cook very well, so every recipe they try is a new adventure. 

Jack had made the filling, Kath had worked on the dough, and now they've got a blueberry pie in the oven. It's a little ugly, but hopefully it'll taste fantastic.

"What if I braid your hair?" Jack offers, gently pushing one of her loose curls behind her ear with his free hand. "Give your arms a break after all that kneading, y'know."

Katherine laughs softly— it's Jack's favourite sound in the world.

"I'm awfully old to be wearing my hair in braids. I think I look like a little girl with my hair down."

"Aw, who's looking?" Jack chuckles, letting go of her hand so he can turn and start taking pins out of her hair. "It's only us here, and I don't mind how you look any which way. You always wore it down when we first met."

She makes no move to stop him from messing with her hair, just adjusts herself to get comfortable.

"I was eighteen then," she sighs. "We were practically children. I'm all grown-up now— a married woman, and all."

Sometimes Jack forgets he's lived a dozen lives before this— every moment here feels so real. He'd played it younger when he started selling papes, claimed he was fifteen, just like Race, and no one ever questioned it. Plenty of fifteen year-olds look just like young men. Now it feels like he really has just been growing up from there— he's supposedly almost twenty-four these days.

He would give anything to age normally, alongside Katherine. They could start a family, raise children, and then become a grumpy but charming old couple with a house out in the countryside. He has to make an effort to push the thought away so he doesn't get too upset about it all.

"Age don't hardly mean a thing," he replies, removing the final pin and brushing her long hair with his fingers. "We oughta just stay young forever."

-

Jack doesn't date anymore.

Not since Katherine. He still imagines sometimes how she must have cried when she got the letter telling her he'd been killed in the trenches of the Great War. He'd left his dog tags behind when he made his disappearance, sitting with all the random, unidentifiable remains after a bomb had dropped on them. He hopes the tags made it home to her. 

He can't do that again, getting so attached to someone mortal. It only ends in heartbreak all around.

All that being said… he can’t stop thinking about that conversation with Crutchie.

-

Davey isn’t having a panic attack.

At least, that’s the reality he’s trying to manifest. In an ideal world, he most certainly is _not_ having a panic attack.

Unfortunately, this reality isn’t ideal. 

He just got home from work and he’s been struck with the realization that he’s not allowed to contact his family. It’s not like he’s _that_ tight with them— he often forgets to call his parents, he only FaceTimes Sarah when he’s drunk, and sometimes he’ll help Les with homework via text. He doesn’t _need_ to get in touch with them, he’s perfectly independent… but the fact that he couldn’t call any of them even if he wanted to is stressing him out.

He’s sitting on his bed, knees tucked to his chest, trying to stop hyperventilating.

His parents could be dying, for all he knows. Sarah could’ve been in an accident! Les could’ve… gotten alcohol poisoning at a frat party? Been slammed into the boards in a hockey game? Okay, college freshmen, especially D1 hockey players, are pretty resilient— Les is probably fine. But the rest of them could seriously be in danger, and Davey would be none the wiser!

His heartbeat is rising in his throat and his chest feels tight. He’s using an FBI-issued phone— they’ll know if he breaks the rules and gives his parents or his sister a call. This is fucked, it’s _so_ fucked.

His parents probably hate him. He dropped off the face of the earth with no explanation— apart from being “gone for work”— and they don’t know when he’ll be back. He could die on this mission, and they’d find out about it from Spot or someone. God, he didn’t even say goodbye. He’s never going to see them again.

He clutches at the front of his shirt. It feels too tight. He’s crying and he’s shaking and he can’t do this. He’s not cut out for undercover; he’s probably going to fail anyways, and Jack will get away and he’ll lose his job and so will Spot, so it’ll all be for nothing and—

A wave of nausea hits him like he’s being punched. He sprints to the bathroom and barely makes it to the toilet in time to empty his stomach into it. When finished, he stays sitting on the floor, leans back into the wall, and sobs into his knees.

 _Fuck_.

These attacks usually come out of nowhere, and they’ve been happening since he was a kid. He knows, rationally, that this will pass and he’ll be okay— but it’s so _hard_ to think rationally in the moment. He feels like he’s going to die. He’s choking on his own tears.

He realizes he’s pinching the inside of his wrist, trying to ground himself. The sharp little pain helps— it brings him back to reality, somewhat. He sits there for a moment: pinching up and down his arm until his sobs subside into sniffles.

He’s okay. He’s just working in a new office, living in a new place, and trying to make a new friend. These are all things he’s done before. Not being able to call his parents isn’t the end of the world— some people don’t even have parents to call. He’s perfectly fine.

That’s the thing about his panic attacks. They go away as quickly as they start.

He takes a deep breath in and out. He should figure out what to do for dinner— he’s sure he packed the recipe book his mother made for him when he moved.

Maybe he’ll try her pierogi recipe. It’s a simple enough recipe, but there’s lots of steps to it, so he’ll be well-distracted for a while. If he makes enough, he can throw them in the freezer for days he doesn’t feel like cooking… or maybe he could stop by and offer some to Jack. He did bring cookies as a housewarming gift, so returning the favour would only be fair.

Okay. Alright. That’s what he’ll do. He bought potatoes and cheese the other day, and he’s got a few baking essentials, so he should be able to pull this off. He’ll do some good old Polish cooking to calm himself down from his panic, and then he’ll share the food with his neighbour who still may or may not be a serial killer.

Good lord— what the fuck has his life become?

-

He and Jack exchanged numbers on his first night here, but Davey hasn’t actually texted him yet. He’s overthinking it.

_hey I was doing some cooking tonight and I made too much, want some pierogies?_

No, he sounds crazy. Who the fuck just accidentally makes too much of a recipe this complicated? It’s getting late in the evening anyways, probably past when Jack might want to eat dinner.

_Hey how’s it going? I thought I’d return the favor from those cookies you brought over— do you like pierogies? I made a whole batch tonight :)_

Ugh, that’s not it either. It’s too eager— the smiley face is way too much. God, if he could just live one day without overthinking every text he tries to send…

Like a blessing from God himself, just as Davey is deleting his last attempt at a message, a text from Jack pops up.

_dude someone nearby must be cooking rn, because the whole hallway smells AMAZING and i’m starvinggggg_

_can you smell it too or am i going crazy?_

Oh. Well. That makes it a whole lot easier— though he hadn’t been aware that the smell of caramelizing onions might waft out from under his door. 

_That’s me! Come over if you want, I have lots of extras! Door is unlocked :)_

Okay, that’s something he can send. He just sounds friendly, which is exactly what he’s going for. 

As soon as he hits send, he notices the case file wide open on his kitchen table. A good amount of Jack’s personal information, everything he’s collected and everything Spot has been able to find, is staring up at him. Fuck. He practically dives across the table to scoop all the papers into his arms. He doesn’t know where to put them, and Jack will be here literally any second.

He sprints to his bedroom and shoves everything into the bedside drawer, just as he hears Jack come in.

“Hey neighbour!” Jack calls. “Holy shit, I didn’t know you were a chef!”

Davey takes a moment to stare himself down in the mirror on the wall— this is really happening. Jesus. Alone in his apartment with a criminal… this is fine. 

“Hi Jack!” He makes his way out of his bedroom with a little jog. “Sorry, I was just putting some stuff away— tidying up from all this cooking.”

Jack looks absolutely incredible. He’s in casual track pants and a vintage-looking t-shirt, but somehow still looks like some kind of Adonis as he leans over the stove to look at the baking dish full of pierogies.

“What’s inside these? They look really good.”

“Just potato and cheese.” Davey suddenly feels very self-conscious of the mess and can’t stop his hands from tidying, tossing dirty dishes and utensils in the sink. “I didn’t have a ton of ingredients around— stress-cooking hits at the weirdest times.”

Jack laughs, and it’s like his eyes literally gleam. He’s got deep, tan skin and dark features, and they just light right up when he smiles. It’s honestly unfair for one man to be that pretty.

“Was the first week of work that bad?” He turns to lean against the counter. “Fill me in. What’s it like being a big city businessman?”

For some odd reason, Davey feels like opening up. They each fill up a plate and sit down in his living room, and he lets himself rant about all the assholes at his new office. No one even talks to him in the break room and they just throw paperwork on his desk for him to file— which isn’t fair because he’s _not_ an intern, like most of them seem to believe. It isn’t his job to go on coffee runs, since he actually has a lot of work to do, but he always ends up being coerced into it anyways.

Jack just nods along, making the odd noise of agreement, but by the end of the night, it sort of feels like they might be friends. Davey completely forgets about the whole federal investigation thing— it’s just nice to have someone to hang out with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things Are In Fact Happening..... interesting.
> 
> so yes this is a javid fic, but absolutely no one can stop me from shoehorning jatherine into it. like,, even if you don’t really ship it,, you have to admit the domestic bliss is kind of adorable.
> 
> ALSO, the beginning of javid..... enemies to lovers, but only one party knows they’re even enemies jcgbfgcdv
> 
> please leave a comment!!! feel free to ramble as much as you want— i’ll read it!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> encounters with the police, in more ways than one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’re back!!
> 
> no warnings for this one. just plenty of Drama. flirting, arson(?), mysterious strangers in paris— this chapter has it all.
> 
> enjoy!

_Hey FBI friends!_

_I feel like we're friends. How long have we been in correspondence now? If I recall correctly, it's gotta be almost sixty years. Damn, I'm getting old._

_I feel like we should do something to commemorate the anniversary— what if I come take a tour of your HQ? Kidding, kidding. I know you'd just use it as an excuse to try and lock me up or something... not that it would work ;) I don't stay put for long._

_Keep in touch!_

_Johnny? (not sure how I feel about this name, but it does fit the J theme)_

-

_Paris, France. 1964._

"Bonsoir, monsieur. Vous avez fait votre choix pour dîner?"

He doesn't particularly like waiting tables, but it's a good way to make conversation with interesting people. This particular customer, he swears he recognizes from somewhere, but he's not sure where. 

"I'm sorry— you wouldn't happen to have anyone on staff who speaks English?" the man asks, which almost makes Jack chuckle. It's very American of the fellow to arrive in France without learning a word of the language, assuming the locals should cater to him. 

He's lucky he's got Jack as a waiter, as some of the other staff here probably wouldn't be quite as friendly about it.

"Oh, I'm actually American myself," he says, making the quick language switch in his head— it's been a while since he's spoken in English and he's worried it'll come out a little rusty. "Have you been able to figure out the menu? I can translate anything you need."

The man looks him up and down. There's some glint of recognition in his expression, which is... dangerous. Jack hasn't been to America since before the war, a good twenty-plus years ago. Being recognized by someone could mean his secret starting to unravel.

The man blinks and shakes his head, seeming to brush the thought away.

"I'll just try the fifteen euro set menu," he says, handing the menu card to Jack. "Is there a wine you'd recommend to go with it?"

"Well, I'm not much of a drinker myself," Jack laughs, sheepishly, "but I've heard the _Bourgogne Rouge_ pairs well. Can I get you a sample?"

Something about this interaction is unsettling. Jack doesn't care for the way this man is staring him down. He's dining alone, which likely means he's here on business, and the American Embassy is nearby. He probably works in some branch of the government.

"I'll just trust your recommendation and take the glass." The man smiles, but there's something insincere about it. "I have to ask... what brought you to Paris, young man?"

Jack has an answer prepared for when anyone happens to ask, but for some reason, this feels like a loaded question. He's growing more nervous by the second.

"I was going to take a gap year to travel before going to off college, but when I got here I just loved the city and decided to stick around." He can't stop fidgeting with the menu in his hands. "I'll probably head back to New York eventually, but I love the culture here. Are you in town on business?"

The man nods, but his intense gaze doesn't let up. He knows something— he's recognized Jack from somewhere.

"I'm with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation," he replies, and there's an uncomfortable kind of weight to his words. "It's good to be back, I haven't been to France since the war." There's a pause, where he gives Jack a pointed look. "I fought on Omaha Beach."

There it is. The memories rush back— they were definitely army friends a couple decades ago. They served together, and Jack hasn't aged a day since he went missing in action, presumed dead, on that very beach. His former comrade is now middle-aged. Oh fuck.

"Well, thank you for your service, sir," Jack says, hurriedly. "I think my father fought there as well."

Maybe that's the cover he needs— some sons are spitting images of their fathers, right? It doesn't seem to work, as the man still seems suspicious of him.

"I'll go get that wine for you," Jack adds, already walking away. "I'm sure it'll be just the right pairing for your dinner."

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

-

_Present Day._

"So that's the first time he was on our radar?"

Spot leans back in his chair with a sigh. He's spending another afternoon cooped up in _Snyder's_ office of all places, going over the case.

How the hell this guy has been running around for over sixty fucking years and still looks young is completely baffling. That's the whole reason he's being investigated— one of their top officials, who's long since retired, had served with him in the Second World War, and then he'd popped up in France twenty years later, looking exactly the same. Then he'd shown up in New York in the seventies, New Mexico in the eighties, and again and again and again— always looking like he's no older than twenty-five.

Now, Spot has seen Marvel movies— he knows it sounds like they're tracking the damn Winter Soldier— but this is real. It's insane.

"Twenty-seven confirmed appearances, and dozens more presumptive, since 1964," Snyder states, closing one of the folders on his desk. "Not a single agent has been able to catch him. I want _answers_. What the hell is he?"

Spot is very, very scared of his boss, so he just shrugs.

"That's what Jacobs is supposed to find out for us— his first report looked good. He's already made contact, and it doesn't seem like our perp has sussed him out. He's going by Jack these days, apparently."

Snyder is quiet for a moment, thinking it over.

"I want Jacobs to try and make the arrest as soon as possible."

Spot feels his eyes go wide.

"Sir, isn't that awfully dangerous? Jack _killed_ the last agent who went after him. I really think we should wait it out and—"

"No." Snyder has a loud and commanding voice that makes Spot jump a little. "I want this _Jack_ character in custody now. If he's not in handcuffs in two weeks, you and Jacobs can both find new jobs. Give him my orders, and make something happen."

Spot almost wants to try to defend both himself and Davey again, but he's cut off by Snyder abruptly pointing to the door. He can take a hint, so he stands up and quickly gathers the few papers he'd brought in with him.

"Okay— um, I'll check in with him and see how it's going... I'll let him know what you said." He nods as he turns to leave the room. Good lord, he sounds like Davey, stammering all nervously. "Two weeks. We can... We can do that... I think."

-

Davey is quite honestly a little too excited that Spot wants to take him up on the coffee date idea.

Okay... not a date. Coffee _meeting_ might be a more appropriate title. It's to catch up about work and absolutely nothing personal.

He's spending yet another evening hanging out with Jack when he gets the text. They've fallen into a routine of eating dinner together, so they can take turns cooking and not have to do it for themselves every day. It's almost like having a roommate, but they can each go back to their own space once they've eaten.

"What's got you smiling so big?"

God, Jack is ridiculously charming. He's grinning mischievously at Davey, who hadn't even realized he was smiling at his phone. 

"Oh, it's nothing," Davey stammers, caught off-guard. "A friend from home just let me know he's gonna be in town this week. He wants to catch up."

"A _friend_?" asks Jack, wiggling his eyebrows. "What kind of friend makes you smile at your phone like that?"

Davey laughs abruptly— Jack is very observant. In any other context, a question like that might bother him, but they've become pretty comfortable with each other lately. He's staring to get used to some of the playful teasing.

"A _good_ friend," he chuckles. "Mind your business."

Jack raises his hands in surrender. He's spread out on his couch, in a comfy t-shirt and basketball shorts, looking utterly domestic. Davey is almost embarrassed by how endearing he finds it. 

"Just asking a question," he laughs. "I'm nosy!"

"Okay then," Davey replies, almost impressed at the way he's learning to tease Jack right back. "My turn to be nosy. How's your love life?"

Jack leans back on the couch like he's going to fake-sleep to avoid the question. He eventually just sighs.

"Sad," he says, through a pitiful laugh. "I've been in one solid relationship, and it was years ago. I'm bad with commitment."

He runs a hand through his hair and Davey tries not to swoon. God, he _cannot_ be falling for Jack Kelly— what kind of upstanding citizen would he be if he fell in love with a wanted criminal? And Jack just said he has commitment issues, meaning he's certainly not the kind of guy Davey ought to be going after, when he's been cheated on multiple times in past relationships. If he had half a brain, he wouldn't be feeling those stupid butterflies in his stomach right now. 

"So there's no one in your radar?" He's flirting. God damn it. He shouldn't be doing this. "You're not interested in _anyone_?"

Jack shrugs, and the little smirk on his face says he knows exactly what Davey is getting at.

"I don't know... maybe." He quirks an eyebrow. "Really depends who's asking."

The tension between them is palpable. Just as Davey is about to say something else— probably shoot himself in the foot with his own awkwardness and kill the moment— they're interrupted by Jack's phone ringing.

He looks down at it and sighs.

"Fuck, it's my brother. I should probably take this." He stares at his phone with glaring contempt for a moment. "He's fifteen and _so_ goddamn stupid. I don't even wanna know what he did now."

Davey hadn't known Jack had a brother. He makes to commit the fact to memory, suddenly recalling that his whole mission is to gather information about Jack. Jesus, he'd nearly forgotten he was working, too caught up in whatever weird romantic moment they were building there.

"I'll get out of your way," Davey says, quickly pushing himself up from the armchair he'd been sitting in. They finished eating ages ago and they've just been talking since. As much as he'd like to listen to the phone call and get a few more details about this brother of Jack's, eavesdropping would just be plain rude. "Thanks for having me, I'll see you tomorrow."

-

Davey waves as he leaves the room, Jack waves back, and he finally accepts the call.

"Hey," he says, holding the device you his ear. "What's up?"

There's a suspiciously long pause. 

" _You're gonna be mad at me_."

Jack sighs.

"I had a cute boy over and your call just ruined the moment, so I can't get any more mad than I already am. What did you do?"

Another pause.

" _I got arrested_ ," Race squeaks. " _I didn't wanna call mom, because I figured she'd get more mad than you would. They're not gonna charge me with anything, I just got a warning, but they won't let me leave without an adult_."

Jack groans and scrubs a hand over his face. 

"God, you're fucking unbelievable sometimes." He's already standing up and looking for his keys, because of course he'll go pick Race up, but what kind of older brother would he be if he didn't give him a hard time about it? "What the hell did you get arrested for?"

" _It's embarrassing_..." Race grumbles. " _Me and my friend_ _were setting shit on fire in the park. Not, like, arson or anything! Just... papers and stuff. Someone called the cops on us_."

Jack holds his phone up with his shoulder as he bends down to put his shoes on. 

"You're so stupid. Oh my god. I'm on my way."

-

Jack winds up just spending the night at Medda's, after the whole process of signing Race out of the police station takes far too long.

Showing up to any kind of law enforcement office is a little stressful when you're wanted by the FBI. Luckily, no one caught onto anything— Jack had simply materialized an ID with the same last name as Race, so there wouldn't be any questions about whether or not they were related, and played it cool and innocent. It all went smoothly, it was just a lot of paperwork. 

"So now that you can do your little magic trick with the fire, you think it's smart to do it in public?" Jack had asked, after rescuing Race. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know..." Race had sighed. "Albert thought I was doing some kinda sleight of hand shit, with a hidden lighter. It was funny. Please don't tell mom."

Despite Jack agreeing not to tell Medda, she seems to know anyways. They get home and she gives them the _look_ — like she's knows they're hiding something— and it makes Race give in almost immediately. He's sent off to his room to think about his actions, and Jack spends the rest of the evening catching up with Medda.

The next day, he makes it back to his apartment around mid-morning. He figures he'll stop in the lobby cafe and grab a coffee, as he could use something to perk him up for the tidying that his apartment so desperately needs, so that he has space to set up an easel and get into painting again.

He's waiting for his drink when he notices Davey at a little table in the corner, sitting next to an unfamiliar man— probably the friend from out of town he'd mentioned. Jack isn't sure if it would be obnoxious to go over and say hi, but before he can decide, the barista calls his name.

He grabs his drink and decides there couldn't be any harm in a quick hello, so he turns around to go walk over to them and—

Oh.

They’re kissing.

His heart immediately sinks. He hadn’t exactly pegged Davey as one for PDA, but there he is, all up close and personal with his alleged _friend_. It hurts a little… he sort of thought he had a chance.

So much for trying to date again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POOR JACK!
> 
> was davey even actually kissing spot? were they just talking very closely? or did their workplace romance finally come to a head? that’s for me to know, and for y’all to theorize about until the next chapter is ready!
> 
> please leave a comment!!! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spavey: are they or aren’t they? what’s actually going on here? no one really knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. i have seen the calls for more backstory on how jack became immortal..... i think you guys might like the flashback in this chapter.
> 
> scarlettroses 2020: a writer for the people.
> 
> anyways, no real warnings for this chapter except for some discussion of death (as to be expected lol). enjoy!!!

_Hello again,_

_You know, I'm getting a little bored of these one-sided conversations. If someone doesn't start replying to me, I might stop writing you altogether— and I'm sure these letters are a highlight of the workday for whatever poor agent has to deal with them._

_It's been fun bothering you all, but it feels like we're at a bit of a standstill. I double-dog-dare you to try and catch me again! Send your best agents, see if they can pull it off!_

_I'll be waiting,_

_Jack ;)_

-

It's not a date. It's an informal meeting. 

Davey keeps telling himself that. At this point, he's entirely torn between lingering feelings for Spot— who he's not even sure _actually_ likes him back— and this interesting new development with Jack, which is so wrong but so... _fun_. If he were to call Sarah and tell her about this, she'd probably call him a slut. She wouldn't really be wrong, he supposes.

He's at a table in the back corner of the coffee shop, waiting for Spot to arrive. He vaguely wonders what Jack's brother needed last night— hopefully he wasn't hurt or anything. Before he can think too hard about it, the bell above the door jingles and Spot walks in.

He looks exhausted. That's the first thing Davey notices. There's bags under his eyes, like he's been up all night— Davey knows he has a tendency to pull all-nighters when work gets particularly stressful.

Spot waves as he gets in line to order his drink, and gets it almost immediately, since he's one of those particularly hardcore people who drink plain black cold brew.

The next thing Davey notices, as Spot walks over to him, is his interesting outfit.

"What are you wearing?" Davey asks, before Spot can even sit down. "You look like your going to your... step-grandparents' barbecue or something."

"My _what_?" asks Spot, looking down at himself. "What does that even mean? This is my— _undercover_ — look. I went preppy for once."

Preppy is certainly the word for it— he looks like he walked right out of a Vineyard Vines advertisement. Pastel shorts, a polo shirt, and Sperrys; it's totally ridiculous, considering that any other time Davey has seen him outside of work, he's been in classy but fashion-forward streetwear.

"You look different, is all I'm saying," Davey laughs. "I thought maybe I'd been gone so long that you totally changed aesthetics."

Spot rolls his eyes and finally takes a seat.

"You've been gone a week and a half, you're ridiculous." He's got a backpack on, so he swings it around to his lap and opens it to take his laptop out. "Forgive me for taking this mission seriously."

"Dressing like a frat boy is pretty serious, alright," chuckles Davey, sipping on his iced latte. He shrugs. "It's cute. Preppy looks good on you."

Spot looks away to hide it, but he totally blushes a little. They've always been playfully flirty like this, but Davey has always sort of figured it would never go anywhere. It's just for fun— he's never had a serious interest in Spot. He doesn't have many friends, and he'd definitely like to keep Spot as one of the few, so he doesn't want their little _thing_ to escalate much more.

"Okay, we've got work stuff to go over," Spot says, collecting himself. It's hard to take him seriously when he's got a backwards ball cap on. "I have to update you on a few things, but first I just want to confirm some specifics of your report. Where did you first run into... fuck, for the sake of being discrete, let's call him... J."

Davey frowns.

"That's not discrete— almost all of his aliases start with J. Let's use a different letter: call him A."

Undercover Davey is a lot more confident than his usual self; he'd interjected with his opinion, without even stuttering or apologizing. Spot looks impressed.

"Cool, good idea. Anyways, where exactly did you run into A? Did you know it was him right away?"

"He literally walked right into me when I was moving in," Davey laughs. "I dropped a box and he carried it to my apartment for me— he had sunglasses on but I realized it when he took them off. I could _not_ fucking believe it."

Spot shakes his head and sighs.

"I can't believe you just _found_ him like that. He's notoriously impossible to track."

Davey simply shrugs.

"I guess I'm better at this job than we expected. Natural aptitude, or something."

Spot snorts and rolls his eyes. He's about to say something else, but Davey is suddenly distracted by a much more pressing situation.

Jack is right there, waiting for a drink at the counter. If he gets close enough to see any of the pages they've got on the table between them, or even the screen of Spot's computer, they're fucked. He _cannot_ come over here.

"God, when did you get so cocky?" asks Spot, totally oblivious. "I don't... are you okay?"

"He's right behind you," Davey whispers, quickly leaning in close to Spot. "Do _not_ turn around. I think he noticed us— fuck, he might come over here."

Spot's eyes go wide.

"What? Shit, okay, um—"

And then he's kissing Davey on the lips.

 _What_.

Davey is far too panicked to pull away, and he supposes this is definitely one way to make Jack want to stay far away from the PDA weirdos in the corner of the coffee shop, so he goes with it. He kisses back, which is interesting, and the whole experience goes on for far too long. It's weird, though not entirely unpleasant.

They break apart after what feels like forever. It's Davey who pulls back first, having to actually push on Spot's shoulders to end the kiss.

"We good?" asks Spot. "Is he gone?"

"Um, yep— he's... he's gone." Davey stutters, suddenly right back to his usual nervous self. "That... that sure worked. Good plan, I guess."

Spot laughs, though it seems insincere, and picks up his drink to take a sip.

"What makes people more uncomfortable than PDA?" He shrugs, trying way too hard to be nonchalant. "You're a secret agent now, we do what we have to do."

Right. That's what that was. Sure.

If Davey's being honest, Spot was kissing him far too passionately for someone who wasjust playing a part. He's starting to get a notion that there might be some pent-up feelings they need to talk about. Maybe they're not quite on the same page with the _casual flirting_ thing.

However, this is a work meeting. They're here to discuss the mission, and nothing more. Back to business.

"Okay, what did you need to update me on?" Davey sighs, trying to switch back to professionalism. It's a little difficult when Spot is staring at his lips like that. "Any news from the big guy?"

"Right!" Spot snaps out of it and redirects his gaze to his computer screen. "I have some... orders. You're not gonna like this."

-

Jack closes the door to his apartment and sighs heavily.

Damn it. He really thought he had something going with Davey. He's not sure if he's been led on, or if he misread last night's conversation, but it still hurts. This _sucks_.

He kicks his shoes off and throws his keys on the counter before he stomps over to the couch to wallow in his misery for a moment. 

Davey has a _boyfriend_.

Why wouldn't he have just mentioned that when Jack had asked about his friend last night? Why would he have blatantly flirted the way he did— they were practically about to kiss! Jesus... was Davey planning on cheating? One week on Wall Street and he's already having an affair— what the hell are they putting in the water down there?

Jack feels sort of sick. He's done a lot of questionable things in his life, but nearly becoming a home-wrecker still doesn't feel good. It's not fair to that poor boyfriend of Davey's, who was probably nervous about doing long distance in the first place. It wouldn't be right for Jack to swoop in and steal his man— even if Davey was the one who made the choice to flirt with him. Jack would still feel bad.

He takes a deep breath and rubs at his eyes. Okay. He's making a lot of assumptions here. He doesn't know that Davey is in a relationship with that guy— maybe it was a spur of the moment thing going on down there. Maybe they were talking very closely, not even kissing at all! Maybe they're friends with weird PDA benefits.

No matter the reality of the scenario, Jack is upset and embarrassed. He decided to pursue a romantic aspiration for the first time in over a century— with a _man_ , no less, as the legality and social acceptability of that still feel new to him— and it all came around to kick him in the ass. Of course it did.

He misses Katherine. It's so hard to find someone new when what they had was _perfect_. They only had a little less than two decades together, but it was the happiest Jack had ever been.

He's got a picture of her on his phone— the internet truly works wonders. He googled her name once and came across a website that archives old newspaper articles, where a photo of Katherine Kelly herself had been originally published in 1943. She would've been sixty-two at the time of the photo, but she still looks like herself and she's so, so beautiful to Jack.

It was an article about the grand opening of _The Kelly Home for Vulnerable Children_ — an orphanage that she funded in her retirement, in honour of Jack and the newsies that she'd met all those years ago. In the interview, she mentions that she'd been wanting to do this ever since Jack had (allegedly) died, as they never got the chance to have children of their own. They were going to adopt— Kath didn't want to have a baby when there were so many babies already out there in need of parents. She was truly an angel.

The feeling of a tear running down his cheek startles Jack out of his reminiscing.

He misses a great many people, but he thinks he might miss Katherine the most. He'll probably miss Davey someday too, though— that's just how things seem to go.

-

 _Regno di Napoli (present-day Southern Italy), 1368_.

Their family has a secret.

Some folk in their village seem to know it, as they'll come around sometimes and ask for help with certain troubles and ailments, but it's important to be careful who you talk about the secret with.

He knows better than to talk about the secret with _anyone_ , as it's hard to tell who might run off and tell the Church or something. The secret stays within their home.

His mother is a witch, he reckons. That's the big secret. She can do magic of all kinds— healing wounds, curing illnesses, everything that technically only God should be able to do. Even when the Black Death was ravaging the country, back some twenty years or so ago when he was far too young to understand it, everyone on good terms with his mother stayed healthy.

He's twenty-one now. He'd expected that by this age she would've explained it more, maybe even started teaching him— but no, he spends day after day in the monotony of planting, tending, and harvesting crops. No magic at all. It's _boring_.

He's a bit of an outsider in their village. He's quiet and he keeps to himself, which is why he hasn't got a wife or children yet. It's just him and his mother and a handful of animals, and he likes it that way. He's a bit of a daydreamer, too— he hardly pays attention to what he's doing most of the time.

Like right now, he's balancing rather precariously on a ladder as he tries to repair the thatched roof of their cottage. It's a mindless task, laying down bundles of straw and securing them them together, so he's busy thinking about what it might be like to have his mother's powers. He'd like to be rich— he'd find a way to magic himself a bunch of money. He'd move to a city, maybe Florence or Venice, and see what he could make of himself. With all the thinking he does, he ought to be a philosopher or something.

He's so distracted in this fantasy, in fact, that he doesn't even realize that one of his pigs has wandered under his ladder and knocked it over, until he's smashing his head on the ground with a horrible crack.

His mother must see it happen, because there's a shout of " _Giovanni_!" that he barely registers before the world goes dark.

The next thing he knows, he's in bed. He has no idea how long it's been, but he startles awake, his eyes snapping open. His mother is leaning over him with a hand on his forehead, and her spell book open on the bedside table. She's mumbling to herself, reading from the book.

"Mama?" he mumbles, entirely disoriented and not sure why he isn't in pain, as he could've sworn he smashed his head open when he fell. "What's going on?"

She gasps when she realizes he's awake.

"I didn't think it would work," she whispers, her eyes going wide. She cradles his face in her hands. "Oh, my darling... you're okay. I was so worried."

"What happened?" he asks, still trying to get his bearings. Something feels... off. He doesn't totally feel like himself, though he can’t quite explain why.

“You fell off the roof, dear, three days ago.” She rubs her thumb along his cheekbone. “I thought I lost you forever… I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to bring you back.”

In a moment of panic, he pushes his mother’s hands away as he sits up.

“Bring me back!? Was I dead!?”

There’s a long, awkward moment of silence, before she nods, almost guiltily.

“But you’re okay now,” she sighs. “We'll never have to worry about anything like that again.”

He frowns, somewhat suspicious.

“Why not?” He leans over to try and look at her book, but she slams it shut. “Mama, what did you do to me?”

She picks up her book and turns to go put it away.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re alive, and you will be for a very long time.”

He’s too tired to try and figure out if there’s a hidden meaning to that, so he just settles back into bed. Dying and coming back to life certainly take a lot out of a guy.

He sincerely hopes she didn’t accidentally curse him with eternal life or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much has happened here!!!! do i sense a bit of a love triangle arising?? how cliche!
> 
> and the lore!!! that’s how jack became immortal, but don’t ask me about race or medda bc i don’t have those scenes planned lol. just imagine some other witchery/magic related incidents— race was probably eternally cursed for being an insufferable asshole of a child, and since medda is even older than jack she probably had a run-in with a greek god or something.
> 
> comments are always VERY appreciated, so leave a few words if you have the time! ty for reading!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jack does a recon mission of his own, and davey hates his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! so i was too sick to do anything other than sleep for the first half of this week, which is why it’s been a bit of a wait for this chapter— it wasn’t corona though, so i’m all good! here’s a slightly longer chapter to make up for it.
> 
> warnings for alcohol consumption and (suspected) infidelity if those are things anyone is a little iffy about!
> 
> enjoy!! :)

_Hey fellas,_

_It’s me again! I’m getting a little suspicious that no one’s been after me lately, unless you guys are being particularly sneaky this time around. I’m still itching for a fight, so I really do encourage you to send someone my way._

_Not that I’m a violent guy or anything— you know that! I’m just… bored. That’s all. I could use some adrenaline._

_Still waiting,_

_Francis (haven’t used this one in a while)_

-

Davey wonders just how sad it would be to drink a bottle of wine by himself on a Saturday afternoon.

Too sad, he decides, as he sticks the bottle into the fridge and sighs. He'll crack it open after dinner or something— as far as right now, he has work to do.

The work date was, in fact, mostly work-related. That’s a good thing, of course, because while Davey had gone into it a little flustered and excited to chat with Spot in the fun way they always do, he’s now just… confused. 

The kiss was a little out of nowhere. They’ve never done anything more than jokingly flirt with each other, and while Spot had said it didn’t mean anything and was part of being undercover, he’d acted a little weird afterwards. He was blushing and almost _shy_ — which is super out of character. He kept getting distracted and staring at Davey, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

While Davey will admit that he’s always had a bit of a workplace crush— who wouldn’t have a crush on someone like Spot, as hot as he is intelligent?— he’d convinced himself ages ago that they’d never work. They’re too alike, meaning they make great friends, but would be a terrible couple. He’d sort of thought they had the same idea there, but it’s starting to seem like Spot may have fallen a little harder than Davey.

He sighs deeply to himself. He doesn’t have time for this right now.

He's got a ridiculous amount of notes to organize, which he'd usually just shove in a briefcase and deal with at the office, but he's working on a bit of a deadline here.

_Two weeks..._

If Jack isn't arrested in two weeks, Davey will lose his job. He doesn't _want_ to arrest Jack, who's been nothing but nice to him this whole time, but he'd also rather like to keep this job that he worked so damn hard to get. It's his _job_ to arrest Jack. How shitty.

He's sitting at the table with all his notes spread out in front of him. He doesn't even know where to start.

It's mostly white-collar crime that he's allegedly booking Jack for, but he has a feeling that's not all there is to it. While money laundering in secret offshore accounts and multiple counts of fraud are obviously bad, they don't seem to warrant an undercover FBI investigation like this, not for the rather small amounts of money that Davey's been told about. Additionally, Jack simply seems far too young to have actually done any of this shit— maybe he's just got a baby-face, but he could probably pass for a damn high-schooler if he tried. He looks practically like a kid. There's no way he's some kind of mafia leader or business mogul.

It's confusing, the whole situation. Davey is so conflicted between the image of Jack that's being painted in his case file and the man he actually met— for a while he considers that he might have the wrong guy. But no, he put the evidence together himself. Jack is his perp and he's probably going to have to go to jail.

Davey _really_ doesn't want him to go to jail.

At this point he’s not even ashamed to admit that he’s charmed by Jack. He’s incredibly hot and ridiculously nice— plus he’s secretly a bad boy! He’s a criminal! As a literal FBI agent, Davey probably shouldn’t be so attracted to that kind of edginess, but maybe he’s got a complex or something. Somehow, the fact that Jack would probably look extraordinarily sexy in handcuffs is outweighing the knowledge that he could be incredibly dangerous. Honestly, the fact that he’s basically Spot’s polar opposite probably has something to do with this whole love triangle situation, too.

God… maybe he will have some of that wine. This is all a lot to deal with.

-

Jack certainly wishes he were better with social media.

He's determined to find out if Davey is actually single or not, but so far he's had absolutely no luck. Maybe he's searching it wrong or something, because he's finding plenty of people with the same name, but none of them are _Davey_. It's time to call for backup.

 **Jack** : _ok you know how bad I am at social media...._

 **Jack** : _I need help stalking someone_.

It's a matter of minutes before he gets a response. 

**Crutchie** : _only if it's your cute neighbour ;) i'll help insta stalk him if you promise you're planning on asking him out_

Jack rolls his eyes. 

**Jack** : _I think he has a boyfriend, that's why I need to stalk him. He said he's single but I saw him swapping spit with some guy in the cafe downstairs :/ Starting to think he led me on_

Crutchie is there less than an hour later. A situation this messy is serious business— he's got his glasses on and his laptop bag over his shoulder, looking every bit the software engineer he is.

"Sorry, I came from the office— I was doing some overtime to get this stupid fucking app programmed on time." He makes himself comfortable on Jack's couch, tossing his crutches aside. Jack notes that he hasn't seen Crutchie use his wheelchair in a while, so whatever new MS meds he's on must be working well. "I hate my job sometimes."

"I take it I shouldn't ask what you were working on, then," chuckles Jack, leaning over the half-wall that separates the living room from the kitchen. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

Crutchie laughs out loud at that.

"Well sure— it's five o'clock somewhere, I guess."

"I meant soda or something, you clown." Jack opens the fridge and squats down to see what's on the bottom shelf. "I have beer and some vodka coolers, though. Should we day-drink?"

He can't see Crutchie from here, but he's surely going on some kind of face journey as he considers it.

"Oh, why not?" he eventually laughs. "Grab me a beer, and let's get down to business."

Jack does just so, and then joins Crutchie on the couch.

"Maybe I'm not doing it right— I couldn't find him on Instagram at all," he sighs. "I feel like an old man every time I try something like this."

"You're just an old soul," says Crutchie, patting him on the shoulder. "It's your divine punishment for looking so young."

If only he knew the truth of what he was saying. Jack smiles coyly to himself as he takes a sip of his drink.

"I guess I'll take it," he laughs, once he swallows. "Baby face, but the brain of a grandpa. It could be worse."

"Okay, Grandad," giggles Crutchie. "What's this guy's name? My stalking skills are unparalleled— we're getting to the bottom of this."

"David," Jack replies, hating the way he nearly swoons as he says it. His problem is that when he allows himself to catch feelings, it happens fast. If it turns out Davey isn't single, he's going to be devastated. "But I think he mostly goes by Davey."

"Does he have a last name?"

Oh. Right.

"Williams... I think. He's a bit of a mumbler, but I’m pretty confident that’s what he said."

Looking back now, it was a little suspicious, the way Davey had stumbled over his own last name when they were exchanging phone numbers some time ago. It had almost looked like he wasn't sure of it— he had to think about it for a moment.

"Alright," sighs Crutchie, already tapping away on his phone. "Davey Williams... we'll start on Instagram, but I'm not above combing through fucking LinkedIn. We're gonna figure this guy out."

The next hour or so of searching results in… nothing. There’s a whole lot of Davey/Dave/David Williams on Instagram, but none of them are the one they’re looking for. They try Facebook next, and even with Crutchie’s ways of narrowing down the search, they still can’t find him. No Twitter, no LinkedIn, not even a damn Pinterest account— Davey has no internet presence.

“So… he’s definitely cheating,” Crutchie says, once it feels like they’ve exhausted every option. “I’m thinking he gave you a fake last name so you couldn’t find his socials— there’s no way he _actually_ doesn’t have any. You said he works in business, those guys have to network.” He sighs. “God damn it… I was really looking forward to getting you a boyfriend.”

Jack groans dramatically and leans over onto Crutchie’s shoulder.

“This is so fucked up. He’s so nice!” he whines, as Crutchie circles an arm around him to rub his back sympathetically. “His boyfriend was hot as fuck, too! Why would he cheat on _that_?”

“Wall Street men, I’m telling you,” replies Crutchie. “Everyone’s having affairs down there. Can’t trust ‘em.”

Jack sighs sadly, and Crutchie just laughs, patting him on the shoulder.

“Don’t let it get you down,” he continues. “It just means you’re hot enough that he was willing to risk his relationship for you! Take it as some kind of messed up compliment.”

“Right,” grumbles Jack. “I’m flattered.”

-

Evening comes, and Davey is wine drunk.

Work is too hard, so he puts it all away for a bit. He needs to come up with plan for how he’s going to get Jack into custody— he’ll have to call for backup in advance and have them waiting outside. He’ll need to be armed, apparently, since accounts from previous encounters say that Jack is dangerous and unpredictable when things start to go wrong.

They’ve tried to arrest him before, according to some of the papers Davey went over, and there’s no mention of exactly what happened to the agent involved— only that Jack got away. Davey certainly hopes that means the poor guy was alright.

He throws himself onto his couch with a dramatic sigh.

He’s tired of being undercover. He misses his friends— while he doesn’t have that many, the ones he has are wonderful. Specs and Romeo should be back from their honeymoon by now, and they’re probably wondering why they can’t get in touch with him. His “girlies,” who he’s been tight with since high school, are probably just as drunk as he is right now because they make a point to go out together once a month. Davey is missing it tonight, and he’s _pissed_. Buttons makes the best sangria, and she always makes more than enough to get everyone wasted before they even hit the club.

Now his only friend is a dangerous criminal that he’s in charge of arresting. What the _fuck_?

He almost considers asking Jack to come over, but he surely has better things to do than join in Davey’s drunk pity party. He seems _cool_ , like he’s got a big social circle and does all kinds of fun stuff on the weekends. Why would he have time for his weird, sad, lonely neighbour?

He sighs as he grabs the TV remote and looks for something to watch. This whole situation sucks.

-

Jack really does end up tidying, once Crutchie has left.

He’s trying to distract himself from being so disappointed and angry about their discovery about Davey. Whether the fact of the matter is that he’s actually a cheater or not, he still lied. There’s no way Williams is his real last name, and god knows why he would make something like that up. 

He briefly considers that he could be an undercover agent— and he determines that it would actually be rather cute if he were. Davey doesn’t act like a cop at all, so Jack would be pretty impressed with the whole charade he’s putting on. Either someone as sweet and awkward as Davey actually became an FBI agent, or he’s a remarkably good actor playing a kindhearted dork— Jack can’t quite decide which option would be funnier.

At the end of the day, Davey is hiding _something_. Jack feels rather betrayed, yes, but he’s also somewhat amused at the way mortals think changing your identity is as simple as lying about your name. If it were, Jack wouldn’t have spent all these years forging documents and bank statements every time he moved.

Speaking of documents and whatnot… he’s currently going through a box of stuff that Medda had wanted him to get out of her attic.

He’s got a folder where he keeps all his college degrees— he’s collected five now, his most recent only a handful of years ago. It sits in there next to a carefully preserved diploma from Trinity College, that he obtained nearly three hundred years ago. He’s studied art a couple of times, music once, law once, and biology most recently. Whatever interests him, he figures he ought to pursue a degree in, just for kicks. At this stage in his life, he’s got more savings than he could possibly know what to do with, separated into different accounts under different names.

Next to the folder is a little wooden box, containing dog tags and army medals from a few different wars. The world wars, the civil war, the Spanish-American, even the revolutionary war— he’s got a bit of a fighting instinct and always winds up going to battle. He knows better now, though: he’d never fight on the side of American imperialism again. He dodged the draft for Vietnam, and he’s become even more of a pacifist ever since then.

There’s a handful of old pictures in here, mostly of Jack and Race over the years, and there’s a couple of the smaller paintings he’s done. One is of his mother— he can still picture her face after all these centuries. He’s rather sure she was a mix of Middle Eastern and North African, while his father was as Italian as they come, leaving Jack to define himself as simply _racially ambiguous_ because he’s truly not sure how to identify. The world has changed a lot since he was a child and a lot of countries have changed their names. He has no clue where he’s actually from.

There is, of course, a photo of himself and Kath in here too, but he puts it back as soon as he realizes what it is. He can’t keep dwelling on that today and make himself even more upset— he’s got enough emotions fluttering around his mind with the whole Davey thing.

Ugh. He puts everything back in the box and slides it into his closet. God, he hates romance— if only love could be easy. The world would probably be a better place.

He hates that he still wants Davey after all of this. He’s probably cheating on his boyfriend— good lord, that could even be his husband! But he’s so damn sweet and cute, and he’d totally been blatantly flirting last night. If Race hadn’t called, Jack figures that maybe they would’ve even hooked up… is it bad that he still wants to?

Yes. It most definitely is. However… it’s not like Jack is a particularly good person anyways. He’s done a ridiculous number of morally questionable things in his life, so what’s one more on the list, right? He’s killed people— being a home-wrecker is, like, not even half as bad.

He groans and throws himself on his bed.

Things had been going so smoothly until Davey moved in. Maybe he’ll have to make his disappearance to Europe a little earlier than planned, because he simply doesn’t want to deal with this anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. davey is still a slut, and jack is still sad. no one knows the truth about anyone, and everyone’s got a lot of secrets. when will the truth finally come out? do you, the readers, even know the whole truth? i suppose we’ll find out as the story goes on!!
> 
> thank you for reading!!! i would love it if you left a comment— what do YOU think of this developing love triangle and incoming deadline? what’s gonna happen???


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shirtless painting, stress baking, and mysterious italian lovers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo!
> 
> so i don’t have to much to say about this chapter— i think it’s the longest one yet, and i think you guys are gonna like it ;)
> 
> no warnings, so go ahead and read!

_Hello again,_

_I’m still waiting. I’m starting to think you’re a bunch of cowards._

_Don’t disappoint me._

_Cordially,_

_Yours truly ;)_

-

He's really missed painting sets for Medda.

While she could surely order big printed backdrops for her shows, she has a soft spot for the classic, hand-painted scenery. She always claims that Jack's got a unique style that she likes the best of any artist she's ever met— though she might be a little biased because they're family.

Jack is sitting on the floor, working through the initial sketch for a larger-than-life desert sunset. He's also got an easel set up, with a coat of oil paints drying from earlier today— he's recreating a Caravaggio just for fun. They'd known each other, way back in the day, and Jack absolutely adores the style of painting the man had pioneered. Dark backgrounds, high contrasts— it was all so much more exciting than the flat lighting of Renaissance paintings.

That era of art, starting somewhere around 1600, is probably Jack's favourite. After all, if it ain't _Baroque_ , don't fix it!

He laughs a little at his own pun. Maybe the paint fumes are driving him crazy in here— he ought to crack a window. He's aware that he looks insane right now— he'd blended a colour on the back of his hand to get the shade just right, and then he'd forgotten about it and smudged it all over his cheek while scratching an itch. There's an assortment of colour swatches all over his bare abdomen too, as he can simply never paint without making a huge mess.

These are the best Sunday afternoons, he's decided. He can sleep in and then work at his own pace on the projects that he truly enjoys, with his favourite records playing quietly in the background.

He forgot to grab the mug of coffee next to his easel when he moved to the floor to sketch, and he doesn't particularly want to stand up and get it, so he decides to put one of his newest magic tricks to use.

This one was developed purely out of laziness— he raises one hand like he's reaching for the coffee mug from a few feet away, and with enough focus, it levitates a couple inches into the air. He flicks his fingers in a _come here_ motion, and it floats gently across the room to land in his hand. Medda would be awfully proud of that one.

He sips it, sets it down, and then sighs heavily as he flops onto his back, just laying on the floor. He has a lot to think about, and this morning's art endeavours are really only a distraction.

He wasn't planning on staying in New York for very long. In fact, it's high time for Jack Kelly to meet his untimely demise, so he can pick a new name and start over somewhere else for a while. He'd been planning to go home to Italy, as he's been away for centuries, and hide out in some small town for a few decades until the FBI drops his case. As fun as this game of cat-and-mouse is, he's a little tired of constantly running from the law.

Throwing a bit of a wrench in the plan, however, is one David Jacobs.

Jack had certainly not planned on catching feelings for anyone, let alone someone who isn't even single. He doesn't want to stick around in New York, but he also really doesn't want to leave when he's just getting to know Davey. If anything, he's simply enjoying their blossoming friendship, and he'd feel awful making Davey deal with his alleged 'death' on top of all the other stress of a new job in a new city. It just wouldn't be nice, to do it this soon. He needs to stick around for a while longer.

On top of that, he's come to a conclusion about the _Davey Situation_. Jack has decided that since he's already a morally reprehensible excuse for a human being— what's the harm in hooking up with a man who might be in a relationship? It wouldn't be his fault if the relationship crumbles, as Davey is the one choosing to cheat. He'll be the one who suffers the consequences of his actions— Jack is just along for the ride.

If Davey initiates something, Jack is willing to go for it. After all, he's faking his own death eventually, so what's wrong with being a terrible person for a while?

-

Davey is stress-baking again.

It's like he blacks out— he gets too overwhelmed with life, and cookies suddenly appear. He doesn't even remember choosing a recipe or any of the steps of baking them, but he now has far too many chocolate chip cookies for one man to eat.

Heading over to Jack's to unload some of them onto him is really the only logical course of action here, right? It's totally not an excuse to procrastinate actually planning his arrest— maybe he'll manage to gather a little more intel if they just hang out. That's what this is about... absolutely no deeper intentions here, no sir.

He decides to just show up and knock— if he gets no response he'll just turn around and go home. It's not like it's particularly far away or anything, a whole twenty feet down the hall.

He knocks, there's some hurried footsteps inside the apartment, a moment where he can tell he's being looked at through the peephole, and then the door cracks open.

Jack is shirtless. Oh god.

"Hey!" Jack says with a grin, which widens when he sees what Davey is holding. "Oh my god! Did you bring me cookies!?"

"Sure did," laughs Davey, trying to play it cool, but suddenly feeling incredibly parched. If he thought Jack looked like a Greek god in his kitchen last week, his ridiculously toned muscles are only reinforcing the idea now. His body is _insane_. "I made way too many to eat by myself."

Jack laughs as he opens the door all the way.

"Come in, come in— sorry about the mess. I'm working on a commission." He gestures to a variety of notebooks and pencils on the floor, along with a number of similar-looking sketches of landscapes. "I'm not the most organized when it comes to art."

There's an easel set up by the window as well, and while Davey doesn't know much about art, the painting atop it looks like it ought to belong to a museum. It's incredible.

"Did you paint that?" he asks, which is a stupid question, because Jack has paint smudged all over his face and torso, so he's obviously been working on it.

"That? Oh, yeah! I mean... it's just a reproduction, it's not _really_ my own work, but I thought it would be fun," Jack says with a shrug. "It's _Saint Jerome in Meditation_ by Caravaggio. It's kind of just a study on tone and lighting. I'm nowhere near done, these are just the base colours."

Objectively, Davey knew Jack had to be good at painting, considering that he restores art for a living, but he hadn't expected him to be... _this_ good. Despite apparently being unfinished, the painting already looks amazing.

"You're really talented," he says, as he sets the container of cookies on the table. "You're... I mean— it's beautiful. Really, really nice."

Did he almost just call Jack beautiful? God damn it. Of course, he is beautiful, but it might still be weird to say it. They're just friends, as far as right now. He's making it weird. Fuck.

"Thanks," laughs Jack. Maybe he didn't notice. He reaches for the cookies and pops one in his mouth, before talking as he chews. "How was your date yesterday?"

Davey's eyes go wide before he can help it.

"What? Oh— that wasn't a date. It was... I was just catching up with a friend. We're not... it's nothing."

Jack doesn't seem convinced— why would he be? He definitely saw Davey and Spot kissing, of course he thinks there's something going on there.

"I'll keep my nose out of your business," he chuckles, raising his hands in a joking surrender. "If you catch up with all your friends by kissing 'em in a coffee shop, that's up to you."

Davey can feel the horribly embarrassed blush rising to his cheeks as he tries to laugh it off.

"It's, uh, kinda complicated, okay? I mean... he's just my friend. It didn't mean anything."

Jack just laughs and pats Davey on the shoulder.

"Relax, pal. I'm not gonna interrogate you." He grabs one more cookie and then heads over to sit in the middle of all his notebooks. "We can hang out, but I'm gonna keep drawing while we talk. I'm trying to get this done today."

Davey very deliberately has to pull his eyes away from Jack's abs, before settling down onto the couch. God, Jack's lack of a shirt is horrible for his blood pressure.

"What's the commission for?" he asks, so he can at least feel like he's doing his job.

"I do theatre backdrops," Jack replies, already back to sketching. "These are just my rough ideas, obviously, and then I'll paint them next weekend."

Davey tries not to think about the fact that Jack might be in FBI custody by next weekend. It's sort of a chilling reality that those paintings might never get done.

"Cool," he says, trying not to sound too stilted and awkward. "That sounds fun."

Jack looks up, quirking an eyebrow and tucking his pencil behind his ear. Apparently Davey’s efforts to sound chill haven’t worked, because he looks concerned.

"Are you okay?" He pauses. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable when I asked about your friend, I probably shouldn't have brought it up. Not really my place."

"Oh, no, it's fine!" says Davey, hurriedly, trying to come up with an excuse. "I've just got some work stuff stressing me out and it's turning me into a damn zombie— I keep zoning out. Totally not your fault!"

"Got it," replies Jack, leaning back onto his hands and smiling up at him. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to take your mind off of it."

-

_Republic of Florence. 1480._

“What do you think of trying this with oil paints?”

He’s already done some sketching on the wood panel atop his easel, and he’s just not sure how he wants to fill it in. His instinct would be to use tempera, but this new fad of oil paints is making waves in the local art scene. He might have to give it a shot.

“It might work well,” comes a voice from behind him, as well as a pair of strong arms wrapping around his waist and a chin resting on his shoulder. “They blend a little easier since they don’t dry so fast.”

He hums as he nods, envisioning what he wants the painting to look like. It’s true that oil might make things blend a little smoother— he ought to just give it a shot.

“I’ll try it then,” he says. “But it’s your fault if it doesn’t turn out.”

His companion laughs softly.

“I’ll take the blame, but surely with your skills, it couldn’t possibly go wrong. You’ve never made a bad work.”

A blush immediately rises to his cheeks. 

“You flatter me,” he sighs. “You’re far too kind.”

There’s a moment of pleasant silence. Their home is small but cozy— they’ve both just finished up apprenticeships under the greatest artist in Florence, and they’re now living comfortably by doing commissions for local churches and galleries.

A good hundred years after being cursed, it’s starting to feel more like a blessing. The first couple of decades had been difficult and scary— it had taken a good seven years to truly realize he’d stopped aging, and another near-death experience to drive home the reality that he simply can’t die. He’d been terrified and upset for a long while, watching his mother grow old while he stayed young, and eventually having to leave his village as people grew suspicious.

He’s happy now, though. Florence is a lovely city— if a bit peculiar in some of its customs— and he’s enjoying settling down for a while.

He lives with a dear friend, whom he’d met in his apprenticeship. It’s not uncommon here for young men to be… _companions_ (and while sodomy is technically illegal, it’s a very common practice among men in their twenties). Their relationship isn’t quite romantic— not the way a man might love a woman— but they do love each other very much.

“Giovanni…” A hand brushes a lock of his hair behind his ear. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

He can’t help but smile.

“You. Us.” He pauses. “How happy I am to know you.”

While he knows it can’t last forever, he’d quite like to cherish this moment.

-

_Present Day._

Davey's mind has officially been taken off of work.

It's late in the evening, and he's sitting on Jack's couch, curled into his side while they watch a movie. Their bodies have inched closer through the course of the evening, leading to their current position. They've been drinking— a terrible idea, considering that they both work in the morning— and he simply can't be bothered to think about the mission.

"This is so gross," he whines, hiding his face in Jack's neck as a character is murdered on the screen. They hadn't realized quite how gory this horror movie was going to be when they chose it.

"We don't have to watch it," giggles Jack, who has an arm settled comfortably around Davey's shoulders. There's another sound of what's likely another murder, and he cringes with his whole body. "Oh god, you're right. This is awful. Should I turn it off?"

Now, Davey _really_ wishes he could explain why he says his next words. Maybe the alcohol is making him too confident, or maybe the realization that whatever is going on between them has an incoming expiration date is getting to him. The moment he opens his mouth, he knows he’s probably going to regret it eventually, but he says it anyways.

"Just turn it down. I can think of _way_ better things we could be doing."

There’s a moment of silence in which Davey panics that he may have read Jack’s signals wrong— what if he’s just a flirty person and isn’t even actually interested? He may have totally fucked everything up.

"Is that so?" asks Jack, as he grabs the remote. His tone of voice makes it obvious that he’s doing that cocky smirk that drives Davey insane. "What do you have in mind?"

Since Davey is already leaning into Jack's neck, he takes the opportunity to press a cheeky little kiss there.

"Anything you'd like," he whispers, smiling to himself at the way a simple kiss on the neck has made Jack shiver. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

The way Jack's hands slide up the back of his shirt as they connect their lips is all the confirmation he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOOO
> 
> okay, who saw THAT coming? will they regret their drunk decision? is it the start of a blossoming romance? which one of them is a worse person right now— jack for sleeping with davey even though he thinks he has a boyfriend, or davey for getting with jack despite knowing he’ll have to betray him eventually!?
> 
> things are messy messy messy and will likely only continue to get worse.
> 
> leave me some thoughts in the comments!! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the love triangle progresses, and davey has some decisions to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the moral of this chapter, i suppose, is that ALL cops are bastards, davey included. you’ll see.
> 
> this is a long one, almost 3k! sorry for the delay, i didn’t have cell service or much free time for a couple days, so things got put on hold for a hot minute. i hope all the Drama(tm) in this chapter makes up for it!
> 
> enjoy and please don’t be mad at me

_Hi guys,_

_Alright, this is gonna be the last letter for a while. It feels like you aren’t taking me seriously… consider this our official breakup notice. As much as I’ve enjoyed our acquaintance, the whole game is getting a little tedious._

_Best of luck in future endeavours! Catch any aliens yet?_

_Lots of love,_

_Your favourite criminal xoxo_

-

Davey wakes up in Jack's bed.

Jack isn't awake yet and it's still fairly early— too early to get up for work, even— so he stays right where he is and stares at the ceiling.

There was a time in his life when he _had_ morals, right? There was a younger David Jacobs who knew that sleeping with someone as a means to an end is objectively wrong. It's manipulative— at the end of the day, any relationship he forms with Jack is part of a mission to arrest him. None of this is real.

That's why it's so awful that it _feels_ real. He genuinely likes Jack— he's kind and caring and intelligent and so goddamn beautiful. If they'd met under any other circumstances, he'd be head over heels in love by now. The only thing currently holding him back from that is the reality that somewhere under the friendly exterior, Jack is a criminal. He's secretly a bad person— he _has_ to be.

That's why it's okay for Davey to manipulate him like this, right? Bad people deserve to be hurt— it's justice. Davey is the good guy and Jack is the bad guy, so Davey needs to do the right thing and arrest him, even if that means betraying his trust. It's his job as a federal agent; he's keeping innocent people safe.

Still, somehow, there's a sinking feeling in his gut telling him that something isn't right.

Spot had told him, in one of their briefing meetings before Davey hit the field, that he was too empathetic. One of the hardest parts of being undercover is reconciling the relationships that you form with the truth that you know— no matter how kind he _thinks_ Jack is, that's not the truth. Spot, Snyder, and all the investigators at the FBI know better, and they're the ones Davey should listen to. Jack is _bad_. He's dangerous.

Just then, Jack shifts beside him and reaches an arm out in his sleep. His hand lands on top of Davey's and a little smile settles onto his face.

Davey isn't sure why, but tears are starting to burn at his eyes.

He slips out of bed as quietly as possible and throws his clothes on. Jack remains blissfully asleep as he tiptoes out of the room. He leaves a note on the kitchen counter, and then he's off down the hall to his own place. 

As soon as he closes his door behind him, the metaphorical dam breaks and the tears start to flow. He just wants this stupid mission to be over.

-

Jack wakes up to an empty bed.

He can't say he's surprised— they both have work today, and he wasn't exactly expecting Davey to stick around anyways. It's not like they're... anything. They're friends who probably shouldn't have hooked up, and that's all there is to it.

He gets ready for work in his typical fashion— though he winces a little at how stiff he is in unmentionable areas as he hops in the shower. He dresses himself, does everything he needs to do, and then as he starts the coffee pot, he notices a note on the counter.

 _Had to head out early for work. Thank you for a lovely night. I'll make dinner tonight? :) xox D_.

Oh. That's a pleasant surprise.

-

By the time Davey is seated in his office, he's managed to collect himself.

Breakdown aside, he needs to complete his mission. It doesn't matter how much he's grown to care about Jack— he's a federal agent working under direct orders to make the arrest. His personal feelings can wait; disobeying the FBI because he doesn't think he's doing the right thing would be a good way to get himself fired, or even killed.

To be successful in a job like this, you need to learn to switch off your emotions and do what you're told. It's a skill that Davey clearly still needs to hone.

His phone buzzes with a text from Spot, and he tries to shift his brain into work mode.

_So... we have 12 days. Any ideas on how you're gonna make the arrest? Keep me posted._

Surprisingly enough, Davey does have an idea. It had come to him on the train this morning, and quite honestly, it's horrible. He already feels guilty just thinking about it— it's that fucked up.

But it might _work_ , and that's what's important right now.

He texts Spot back:

_Keep an eye on your email, my plan is coming soon! You're not gonna like it but I need you to trust me lol_

And then he sets to work on typing up his grand scheme, while trying desperately to ignore the little ball of guilt twisting knots in his stomach.

-

The next few days are suspiciously... normal.

Jack had expected things to be awkward with Davey, especially that first night, but nothing really seems to change. They don’t talk about it, and if Davey feels bad about what they did at all, he certainly doesn't show it.

Jack feels sort of guilty— he really does— until he's standing in Davey's kitchen on Wednesday night, helping make dinner, and Davey's phone starts to ring.

"You're getting a call from someone called Spot, with a little sunglasses emoji," he says, leaning over to look at it, while Davey is busy stirring a pot on the stove. "Want me to put it on speaker for you?"

Davey's eyes go wide.

"Uh, no— maybe you can stir, and I'll go take the call in my room. I'll only be a minute."

And then he grabs his phone and dashes out of the kitchen, leaving Jack to wonder what the hell he was so panicked about. He doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but the walls are thin and he's so damn curious— he can't help but listen in as he picks up the spoon in the pot on the stove.

" _Hey_ ," Davey sighs. " _What's up? It's not really a good time— I'm kind of busy_."

There's a pause as he listens to whoever Spot is. Jack vaguely wonders if it's a nickname for the mystery boyfriend.

" _Are you okay?_ " Davey asks after a moment. " _You sound upset. Hang on... are you drunk?_ " He groans exasperatedly. " _Jesus, it's seven o'clock on a Wednesday. Come on... No— I'm stressed about it too, but this just isn't healthy_."

He's quiet for a second.

" _I didn't say that. No, I don't think— I'm not—_ " He must get cut off because he just sighs again. " _Well, stop interrupting me then! You're drunk and you're angry, and I'm not dealing with this right now. Call me tomorrow_."

Jack figures the pasta sauce he's stirring must be about ready, so he turns off the burner and just keeps drifting the spoon around the pot.

" _Do me a favour, Spotty_ ," Davey says, suddenly sounding much softer and less annoyed. " _Drink some water, put on a movie or something, and then go to bed early. I know you've had a bad day... it's okay. We'll probably see each other on Friday or Saturday, right? Yeah. Okay... I'll call you in the morning. Bye_."

Davey returns moments later, with an unreadable kind of expression on his face. He looks somewhere between annoyed and anxious as he sets his phone on the counter and starts rifling through a drawer.

"I'm gonna go have a smoke," he sighs, before Jack can even think to say anything. "I'll be quick."

Jack frowns. 

"You smoke?"

Davey winces a little, embarrassed, as he pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from what must be his junk drawer.

"Yeah... bad habit. I've been trying to quit, and I don't do it often, but... y'know." He shrugs. "I grew up in kind of a bad neighbourhood where everyone did it, so I just sort of started."

Jack nods, leaning against the counter. 

"I get it. I did it too, for a while."

He hasn't smoked in a good forty years, but he'll pretend it's more recent to make Davey feel less embarrassed. It's an ugly habit, he's well aware, and he even got Race to give it up (in favour of a vape, but at least that doesn't smell as bad). It’s hard to quit, he knows.

"I'll be right back," Davey says as he heads out to the little balcony, leaving Jack to wonder what the hell Spot said to make Davey so unnerved.

He’s making a lot of assumptions here, but what he’s starting piece together is that Davey has an alcoholic boyfriend that he’s too nice to break up with, so he’s been screwing around with Jack to avoid dealing with that. Jack doesn’t feel quite as guilty about hooking up with him anymore— he clearly needs a vice— but he does still feel a little bad for the boyfriend that’s being cheated on.

It’s just a shitty situation in general, he supposes.

-

Davey’s hand shakes as he tries to get his nearly-dead lighter to spark a flame.

Spot said _I love you_ at the end of the call.

He was drunk, and obviously not thinking clearly, but he still said it. They say drunk words are sober thoughts— there must have been some truth to it.

The lighter finally comes to life, and he’s able to light up and take a deep drag.

Maybe he meant it in a friendly way. Lots of friends say that to each other all the time. Maybe most coworkers, one of whom is a superior officer, wouldn’t really say it… but that’s neither here nor there.

So Spot had been weirdly into the kiss that was supposedly just a distraction… so he’d stared at Davey with heart eyes for the rest of their meeting… so he’d drunk-dialled him after being verbally abused by Snyder at work just to hear his voice… maybe none of that means anything. Friends can do all of that, right?

He sighs heavily as he leans on the railing. He’s way too old to be having boy problems.

-

_7:13 AM_

_4 new messages._

**Spot** : I’m really sorry about last night

 **Spot** : I shouldn’t drink like that. I get so angry and I start to spiral, and it’s not fair to take it out on you. I’m trying to quit, I swear.

 **Spot** : Can we just pretend that never happened? I’m so fucking embarrassed

 **Spot** : Also let’s touch base today about finalizing some details for tomorrow. I’ll get the detailed plan to you by the end of the day, including all the safety stuff to go over beforehand— backup will be waiting in the hallway instead of just outside the building. I hope you’re not too nervous about it, I believe in you!

-

They don’t see each other on Thursday, Davey and Jack.

Medda is debuting a new show, so Jack takes Race out for dinner like a good brother, and then they sit in the special box that Medda has reserved for them to watch. It’s magical (quite literally) and Jack finds himself entranced with every moment. They sneak off to Medda’s dressing room afterwards, and they fight like any siblings would, over who gets to sit in the massage chair.

Jack wins, of course. He simply picks up Race’s scrawny little body and launches him across the room— while in their immortality they _can_ still get hurt, they heal remarkably fast, so Jack really doesn’t feel all that bad for the fifteen minutes or so that Race complains of a sprained wrist. 

Friday night is back to routine: Davey comes over, and they order pizza, as neither of them are in the mood to cook.

Davey is acting a little weird, Jack notices, but he attributes it to stress from work and whatever’s going on with his failing relationship. He’s got a strong feeling they might hook up again tonight, if the way they’re laying so closely together on the couch is anything to go by.

Jack has thought about it, and decided he really does feel bad for that poor boyfriend. It isn’t right, what they’re doing, and as blissful as it is to remain innocent, he wants to know the truth.

He’s tidying up a few dishes in the kitchen, when Davey’s surprisingly strong arms snake around his waist. He startles a little when Davey kisses his neck.

“I can’t stop thinking about last weekend,” Davey mumbles. “I really, really like you Jack. I don’t normally sleep with someone unless they take me on a date first— you’re special.”

Oh wow. Jack blinks, not sure what to think, but makes the split second decision to relax into Davey’s touch and play along. What harm could really come of it?

“You mean the past few weeks haven’t been dinner dates?” he jokes. “I don’t normally cook for boys that I’m not trying to make a move on.”

Davey laughs now, his breath hot on Jack’s ear.

“Trying to impress me with your pasta boiling skills?” he teases, squeezing gently around Jack’s waist.

“What can I say? Boxed mac and cheese is my speciality.” Jack turns himself around to face Davey, the small of his back against the counter. “You know… you confuse me, Davey Jacobs.”

Davey frowns, confused.

“Why’s that?”

Jack just laughs, breaking their eye contact and shaking his head.

“I never know what you’re thinking. I didn’t even realize you were _actually_ interested in me until you kissed me— it’s hard to tell what’s just friendly to you.” He looks back up and touches Davey’s jaw gently. “Boys as pretty as you generally aren’t very trustworthy. You can get away with a lot, with a face like that.”

Davey blushes.

“So you think I’m pretty, then?” he asks, avoiding the rest of what Jack had just said about not trusting him— which was obviously implying that he knows he’s been lying about his boyfriend. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

He leans in to connect their mouths, but Jack very gently pushes him back. 

“Stop.” He sighs. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t know— I saw you kissing that guy. I heard you being all sweet with him on the phone last night. I know something’s up.” He watches Davey’s expression melt from his charming, flirty smirk to something much more nervous. He looks almost trapped. “Just be honest… am I a side piece?”

It takes a moment for Davey to answer. He eventually just cups Jack’s cheek and looks him right in the eyes.

“It’s not like that, okay? He _really_ isn’t my boyfriend. There’s nothing there. I like _you_.”

And he turns them around to press Jack up against the kitchen wall as they kiss. Jack decides he’s content with that answer, if still a little suspicious, and gives in to the moment. It feels so goddamn good to kiss Davey— he hasn’t felt a spark like this with someone in a very long time. Davey’s hands roam a little and Jack lets his own do the same, confirming yet again that Davey is muscular as hell under his adorably ill-fitted shirts.

They part to catch their breath after a long while, and Davey moves to kiss Jack’s neck. Jack narrowly holds back a moan when he catches just the right spot gently between his teeth. He’s so distracted by the rush of sensations— his shoulders against the wall, his hand in Davey’s hair, the kisses on his neck— that he doesn’t even notice the heavy pressure in the center of his chest until Davey finally pulls away.

‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ Davey mouths, and Jack looks down to see what’s going on.

It’s a handgun, pressing into the middle of his sternum.

Davey looks almost pained to do it, but he slowly backs up to hold Jack at arm’s length, pinned to the wall by his gun. He pulls a badge from his back pocket, and everything suddenly falls into place.

“Put your hands in the air.” Davey is clearly making an effort to look confident, but Jack can tell he’s terrified. “FBI. You’re under arrest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........... im gonna sit over here and not say nothin
> 
> please leave me a comment, even if it’s to yell at me for writing this mess jfhfhfhdd (will davey manage to redeem himself? what’s going on with him and spot? how will jack get out of this!?)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the very dramatic fallout of their current situation, with far too many twists and turns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi :)
> 
> no joke, i rewrote this chapter like 4 times bc the Vibes just didn’t feel right (which i why it took so long) and i finally just said fuck it i’m posting it, so here it is
> 
> warning for gun violence i guess?? no one gets hurt i promise
> 
> pls enjoy!!

It's taking everything in Davey's power for his hand not to shake as he holds Jack at gunpoint.

Now, to be honest, he wasn't sure how he expected this to go. He's wearing a wire, and he's got backup ready to charge in on his command should Jack get violent... but that doesn't seem to be where this is headed.

Jack looks down at the gun, seems surprised for a moment, and then looks back up at Davey and simply seems amused.

"Oh darling..." His voice is so mocking and condescending that it throws Davey off a little. "You shouldn't have done this."

"I said put your hands up," Davey repeats, willing his voice not to shake. Calm and confident, that's what he needs to be. He can't fall for any mind games. "Right now, Jack."

A frustratingly cocky smile slowly spreads across Jack's face as he leans casually against the wall.

"Or what? You'll _shoot_ me?"

Hurting Jack is the absolute last thing Davey wants to do. He'd sort of thought that being held at gunpoint might be enough to get him to cooperate, no shooting required, and this could all go nice and easy.

"I don't want to, but if you try anything, I might have to," he replies, surprised at how assertive his own voice comes out. "Put your hands in the air. I won't ask again."

Jack seems ever-so slightly taken aback by Davey's cop voice, because his eyes go wide for a second. He's back to his calm demeanour in no time, though, and he takes his time as he raises his hands beside his head.

"There you go, _Agent Jacobs_." He wiggles his fingers teasingly. "They're up."

It suddenly hits Davey— how in the hell does Jack know his real name? He'd said it before as well, and he'd been too caught up in sticking to his plan to even notice. Has he known the truth this whole time?

"How do you know my name?" he asks, applying a little more pressure with the end of his gun against Jack's sternum, hopefully intimidating him into answering.

Jack simply leans his head back against the wall and laughs.

"I have my ways. I know everything about everyone." He winks. "You're just bad at keeping secrets— first time undercover, isn't it?"

The fact that Jack is still grinning cheekily and doesn't seem scared at all is pissing Davey off more than it ought to. There's a goddamn gun to his chest, and he's still managing to act like a cocky asshole. It's frustrating, but also so damn _hot_ — Davey is about to lose his mind.

"So you knew?" Davey demands. "You knew I was undercover, and you still trusted me enough to invite me over?"

"Oh no, I thought you were cheating on your boyfriend," he laughs. "I didn't think an FBI agent would be stupid enough to leave his real driver's license sitting right there in his wallet— which he left on the counter when he went out for a smoke. Rookie mistake, sweetheart." He looks down at the gun and back up at Davey. "So... are we just gonna hang out like this? Because you do look really hot holding a weapon, but it'd be a lot sexier if you weren't pointing it at me."

Davey takes a deep, exasperated breath. He's embarrassed, quite honestly, that Jack caught him out like that, and he's entirely frustrated by this arrogant attitude. He's starting to realize that maybe he wasn't the only one hiding a side of his personality.

"Keep your hands up, and turn around to face the wall." He takes a tiny step back to give Jack enough room to turn around, but keeps his aim trained on his chest. He tucks his badge away and reaches for the handcuffs in his back pocket. "You're under arrest. I'm not fucking around, Jack."

An eye roll from Jack.

" _I'm not fucking around, Jack_ ," he mocks. "You're funny. But, fine, if you wanna play that game— I'm not fucking around either."

Suddenly, with a subtle flick of Jack's fingers, Davey's gun goes flying out of his hand. It feels like like an invisible force has grabbed it and wrenched it away. It lands squarely in Jack's palm.

Davey's brain has gone blank. What the fuck just happened? He opens his mouth to respond, closes it, and then opens it again and just lets it hang there.

"We're playing by my rules now," Jack smirks, aiming the gun directly at Davey's head, "and I _always_ win."

"Jack..." Davey is hardly even aware of the words coming out of his mouth, too terrified to process any of this. "I don't— Please don't do anything stupid." He carefully puts his hands up, not missing the irony of how quickly their roles have reversed. "There's a half dozen agents waiting in the hallway. You have no way out... just make this easy and put the gun down."

Jack sighs, not looking remotely phased.

"I'm not sure you know what you're dealing with, darling." He steps a little closer to Davey and gently touches the gun to the underside of his chin, making him gulp nervously. "I don't wanna hurt you, alright? You're awfully sweet, and I'm sure you're in over your head here. Someone higher up in the business thinks you're disposable... they sent you in here, knowing damn well what I do to agents who try to kill me."

Davey is too scared to even breathe at this point— the gun under his chin is keeping his head tipped back just a little. He's breathing shallowly through his nose, surely about to hyperventilate.

Backup will only come in on his direct command. He needs to say the code word out loud— but he's got a good feeling Jack will stop playing nice if he even suspects anything fishy. He's fucked. 

"Please, Jack," he whispers, desperate. "I... I really do care about you, okay? I don't wanna hurt you. If you surrender, I won't tell anyone that any of this even happened. I'll get you off the hook as best I can. It's gonna be okay."

Jack's expression softens for just a moment, but then he furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head like he's trying to snap himself out of it.

"No. I don't fucking _trust_ you." He tips Davey's head back a little further with the end of the gun. "Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna get out of here, and you're not gonna move a muscle until I'm gone. Then you can go back to planting drugs on kids to meet your arrest quota, or whatever else you get up to in a workday."

"I don't do that," snaps Davey, quite frankly a little offended. "I'm not a police officer, I'm a federal agent. I'm not one of the bad cops."

"Right." Jack smiles tightly. "You just work for them."

And then he keeps his aim trained on Davey while backing away towards the balcony, which makes Davey's stomach drop. Surely he's not going to jump.

"Jack... don't do anything stupid," he says, still unmoving with his hands up, one last desperate attempt. "If you just come with me it can all be easy, I'll even put in a good word for you. I'll try to get all your charges reduced as much as I can— I _know_ you don't trust me, but I can help you!"

Jack smiles again, but this looks a little more genuine. He's got a hand on the door handle, ready to leave.

"You're really sweet, Davey," he says, and all his condescending sarcasm has dropped away. He's being sincere. "I really, really wish you the best. I'll miss you."

He suddenly fires the gun, a bullet whizzing straight past Davey's head. It distracts him just long enough for Jack to disappear, and a team of agents suddenly storm the room upon hearing the commotion.

Davey rushes to the balcony before he can even explain what happened, feeling sick to his stomach at the idea of seeing Jack dead on the pavement. It takes him a second to build up the courage to look, and...

Miraculously, Jack is nowhere to be seen.

-

"So... funny story." Jack is walking down the sidewalk, having materialized a ball cap and a pair of sunglasses to stay inconspicuous. The fall from the balcony hurt like hell, but it was easy enough to walk off with all the adrenaline rushing. "I may or may not be locked out of my apartment. Any chance I could come crash?"

Crutchie laughs on the other end of the call.

" _Why don't you stay over with your hot neighbour?_ " he teases.

Jack winces a little.

"Get this: we hooked up last weekend and now it's totally awkward," he lies. "I think your plan for us to fall in love has kinda hit a dead end."

" _Damn it_ ," Crutchie grumbles. " _Yeah, you can come over. We need a new game plan— start brainstorming on your way_."

And then they end the call as Jack shakes his head with an amused smile.

He vaguely wonders how he's going to get his stuff out of his apartment— he's most concerned about the box of (potentially incriminating) keepsakes in his closet. Hopefully no one notices it, and he can sneak back in and get it soon. He's sure there'll be agents waiting for him to come back, but maybe he can find a way past them.

He also wonders how Davey is going to explain his failed arrest to his bosses, but he finds that he doesn't really care. Cops suck, and he's lost a lot of respect for Davey. Maybe he'll get fired so he can find a real job and be a productive member of society instead.

He passes a coffee shop and decides to duck in for a late-evening latte. It's fucking exhausting being an immortal criminal mastermind.

-

"Hey man," Crutchie opens the door with a grin. "Oh my god, you brought me a drink?"

"Only the best for you," Jack laughs, handing Crutchie the hot chocolate. "Thanks for letting me come over. I really didn't wanna have to face Davey."

"I can't believe it," Crutchie sighs, as they head into the apartment. "First of all— you're a home wrecker now, but I kind of love that for you— and I'm glad you smashed. But like... what happened after?"

Jack drops himself onto the couch with a heavy exhale. _He made out with me and then pulled a gun on me_ isn't exactly an answer he can reasonably explain.

"He ditched before I even woke up, and now things are... weird. He's a confusing guy." He looks around the room. "Is Finch home? I haven't seen him in ages."

Crutchie rolls his eyes, sitting in his armchair and leaning his crutches against it.

"Apparently it's _boys night_ with his frat buddies, and boyfriends aren't invited. He told me I should go out with all his friends' girlfriends, but they think I'm their gay best friend and I honestly can't stand any of them. I can only say _yassss queen_ so many times in one night."

Jack snorts.

"Who doesn't love some subtle homophobia on a Friday evening?" he laughs. He's glad he has someone to talk to— if he were alone right now, the little ball of rage over this evening's events would probably surface, and he might lose his shit. "At least it sounds they're trying to be nice? A little tone deaf, though."

Crutchie nods.

"Pretty much." He seems distracted, constantly peeking down at his phone and tapping his fingers on the chair. He frowns and frantically types something. "Sorry. Work stuff— they won't leave me alone. I'm gonna go make a call really quick. Go ahead and get comfy."

He pushes himself up and makes his way to the kitchen. Jack realizes that he really has no clue what Crutchie does for work— call him a grandpa, but he doesn't really get what a software engineer is. He has no idea what company Crutchie works for, or what he actually gets up to in a day. Is he a bad friend?

"We're a go for Plan B," Crutchie says on the phone, which peaks Jack's interest a little. He sounds almost _sad_ about whatever this plan is. "Yeah, anytime now. Whenever you're ready. Cool... yep, thanks Spot. I'll catch you later."

Before Jack even has a chance to remember where he recognizes that name from, the front door bursts open.

" _FBI, get on the ground!_ "

There's a whole team of agents this time, and at the lead: the very guy Davey had been kissing in the coffee shop. Everyone has their weapons drawn, and Jack can feel a noose-like sensation of panic tightening around his neck.

First Davey, and now Crutchie. Has everyone been conspiring behind his back this whole time? Are all his friends secretly FBI agents? What the fuck is going on?

With a numb kind of horror sinking in his stomach, Jack realizes that he has no way out this time. He slowly puts his hands behind his head and sinks down to his knees on the carpet. As the agents surround him, he feels almost frozen— like the calm in the centre of a hurricane.

He's so, so incredibly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POOR JACK!!!!
> 
> now this whole chapter was a WILD ride, so i hope everyone kept their arms and legs inside the vehicle and stayed calm
> 
> COMMENTS ARE V MUCH APPRECIATED! wtf do you think will happen now?? who’s gonna tell davey that ALL cops are bad cops bc the system is inherently corrupt and he facilitates that?? how on earth is jack gonna escape??
> 
> obligatory warning that it might be a while before the next chapter— i’m working at a summer camp this week and i might be too busy to write. til next time!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jack is a little bitch, and everything continues to get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!
> 
> sorry this took a while, a bitch has been BUSY lately. we’ve also reached the point where my outline for the story is much less detailed than it was in the beginning, so plot things are being figured out as i write and it’s a little difficult jgxfbdhfh
> 
> warning for a panic attack and uhhh gun violence (a little tiny bit graphic but not overly detailed)
> 
> anyways!!! i’m sure you’re all waiting to see what happens, so let’s just get into it :)

Jack Kelly hasn't felt _scared_ in a very, very long time.

It sort of comes with the territory of knowing you can't die— nothing is a threat anymore. No matter what happens, he always finds a way out, even if it means abandoning his life and starting over somewhere else, and he's been doing exactly that for hundreds of years. Nothing can truly harm him.

In this moment, however, he's uncomfortably reacquainting himself with the sensation of dread.

He's waiting calmly on his knees as the seven or so field operatives surround him. He could fight his way out of this, he knows, but he's fucking exhausted and he simply doesn't want any harm to come to Crutchie should things get violent, even after all this. He's been fucking with the FBI for decades— it's high time he put the ball in their court for once. He can surrender. He'll be okay, no matter what they try to do to him. They can't keep him forever... right?

"It's so good to finally meet you," this _Spot_ character, who may or may not be dating Davey, says. He's awfully intimidating for such a little fellow, and Jack narrowly holds himself back from joking about it. "I've heard a lot about the infamous Jack Kelly."

"Not my real name," Jack quips, figuring he ought to live up to the sassy character he puts on in his letters. He shrugs, which is sort of uncomfortable with his hands still behind his head. "Sounds like you didn't do your research. Too busy making out with Davey?"

This apparently strikes a nerve, exactly what Jack was hoping for.

"Don't even mention Davey. You tried to _kill_ him," Spot snaps, and Jack's eyes go wide. Davey really must've made up a banger of a story to explain what happened earlier.

"Did not," Jack replies, rolling his eyes. He laughs a little to himself. "I did smash though. Let him top me and everything— he's good. Like, not to be too graphic, but he rearranged my fucking guts. I'm sure you'd know all about it, of course. You're his... boyfriend, right? Or his husband? I'm really not—"

Spot hits Jack across the face with his gun, and then motions for the other agents to wrestle him into handcuffs. Fair enough— he deserved that.

"Ouch," he whines, because if he's going to let himself be arrested, he's at least going to be an asshole about it. "Hey, take it easy! Jesus, you treat all your criminals like this? I'll file a report!"

No one even gives him the time of day as he's forced to lay face-down on the carpet while his arms are pulled behind him. He's not _really_ even resisting, but the agents are rather violent with him anyways, kicking him from all directions and even stepping on him. This is fucked up— he vaguely wonders if this would still be happening if his skin were a few shades lighter.

"You said you wouldn't hurt him."

Jack looks up from where he's essentially being stomped into the ground to see that Crutchie has emerged from the kitchen, looking very concerned and upset.

"Well, he was being difficult," Spot tries to explain. "Sometimes we have to—"

"No," Crutchie interrupts. "That was the deal— I help you find him, and you make sure he doesn't get hurt. I held up my end, so get your fucking _goons_ off him."

Now, Jack appreciates Crutchie standing up for him, but he's quite honestly just confused— how did he even get involved in this? There's no way he was undercover, as they've known each other for years, so the FBI must've found him somehow to get him on the case. It's just not adding up.

"Okay, I’m gonna interrupt for just a second," Jack speaks up from his awkward position on the floor, as Spot must call off the other agents. He strains his neck to look up at Crutchie. "What the hell is going on? Charlie... when the fuck did you join the FBI?"

"I didn't!" Crutchie immediately responds, his voice seeming to jump up an octave as he takes off into an anxious rant, his mouth moving at a mile a minute. "I just do IT work for one of their offices, and I was fixing Spot's computer, and I saw your case file and couldn't keep my big mouth shut about knowing you... because I always talk too much! And them he was gonna charge me with obstruction of justice if I didn't turn you in and we'd just both be fucked then, so... _ugh_. Damn it. I'm _really_ sorry. I made him promise he wouldn't let you get hurt but I don't know why I trusted him in the first place when he literally blackmailed me into this, and it's starting to feel like I really fucked everything up."

Jack almost laughs, because good lord, that boy can talk. Of course he managed to talk his way into this mess.

"Are you two done catching up?" snaps Spot. "We're not out to fucking _brunch_ , I'm trying to make an arrest." He nudges Jack with his foot. "Get him out of here, dear god."

Spot gets mad easily. He's absolutely hilarious when he's mad because he's so damn tiny. Jack commits these details to memory— he sure hopes he gets to fuck with him more through this whole experience.

"We _could_ go for brunch," Jack offers, as an agent hauls him to his feet and begins to pull him towards the door. "There's this diner a couple blocks down with all-day breakfast! We should get to know each other, Spotty— can I call you that? We've been fucking the same man, so maybe we should start conspiring against him. Wanna form an alliance?"

Spot doesn't even turn to look at him, but as Jack is dragged out of the room, he swears he can hear a frustrated whisper of:

"I'm gonna kill him, I swear to god."

Yeah, good luck with that.

-

Spot: _we got him!!!! found him hiding at a friends place, and he's all taken care of_

Spot: _thank fucking god right_

Spot: _take tomorrow off— you're done with undercover, you can move home_

Spot: _i'll be glad to have you back :))_

-

Davey should be relieved.

He's back in his own apartment in Brooklyn. It's got all the furniture that his parents had helped him pick out, all the photos of his friends tacked up on the walls, all the familiar comfort that he'd curated for himself— scented candles and cozy blankets and everything that helps to calm him through panic attacks and sleepless nights.

He should feel calm, being back here. His mission is over and everything is okay. Jack is safely in custody, he and Spot have kept their jobs, and he can go back the comfort of routine. It's all... fine.

It _should_ be, at least.

He crashes down on his couch and barely feels the impact. He reaches blindly for the folded blanket draped over the armrest— it's one of those big chunky knit ones, his grandmother made it for him. It's usually heavy enough to weigh down his anxiety when it feels out of control. He pulls it around his shoulders and over the top of his head and finally lets out a shaky breath as he tucks his knees up to his chest.

He isn't fine. He's not sure why.

He hugs the blanket a little tighter around himself. _Breathe, breathe, breathe_. His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists to stop it. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it thumping in his ears. It's too loud. Too goddamn loud. He clamps his hands over his ears, but it does nothing to help. Frustrated, he chokes out a sob.

Another fucking panic attack. He thought he would grow out of them eventually, but he's twenty-five and still having these dramatic-ass meltdowns far too often. God, he fucking _hates_ having anxiety.

He's thinking about Jack's little brother. Of all the things to worry about— the way Jack had disappeared, his apparent magic trick when he stole Davey's gun, his sudden change in personality— this is what his mind has settled on. Jack has a brother who's even younger than Les, and now he's going to be wondering what happened. He's going to be scared and confused, and god... Jack's parents will probably be so worried. Their poor family. Davey feels sick.

He ruins everything, doesn't he? He shouldn’t have even accepted the stupid mission— of course he wouldn’t be able to do it right.

He couldn’t even arrest Jack properly, and he had to go and get all attached to him in the process. He shouldn’t feel bad for a criminal— especially someone as mysterious and dangerous as Jack— but he’s being eaten alive with guilt, because Jack has a family that he cares about and a passion for art and he was way too good at being kind and caring for all of it to be an act. He’s _someone_ , underneath whatever crimes he committed, and he doesn’t deserve how he’s inevitably going to be treated in FBI custody.

The panic continues to escalate, and Davey pulls the blanket down over his head, as if he’s trying to hide from all these horrible emotions.

He can’t breathe. He shakes his hands at his sides to try and expel some energy, but it’s useless and he just ends up clamping them back over his ears. He rests his forehead on his knees as he sobs breathlessly, his throat feeling as if it’s going to close up.

He’s too empathetic, that’s what Spot had told him. This is all so dramatic— he’ll never make it in this job if he _cares_ so much. He doesn’t know how to shut his emotions off the way he needs to. He can’t keep seeing perps as people— he has to detach himself from any guilt he might feel. Jack is the one who committed a crime, so Davey doesn’t need to feel bad for him. That’s the way this is supposed to work.

Somehow, it doesn’t dawn on him just how fucked up that sentiment is. 

-

_A couple months ago, somewhere in SoCal._

Jack has just climbed out of the shower. He’s naked as the day he was born, still dripping wet, and there’s been an alarmingly loud crash somewhere outside the bathroom.

He’s seen the armoured vans staking out his house, noticed the suspicious gentlemen ‘admiring his garden’ and peering into his yard— he’s well aware this is the FBI raid that’s been a long time coming.

This is so not the time, but he supposes he’ll have to make do.

“Gimme a second!” he shouts, while throwing on his shorts over uncomfortably damp legs and trying to shake some water out of his hair. “I’m getting ready!”

He takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror, sighs heavily, and materializes a pistol in his hand. Fuck this.

The moment he exits the bathroom, a bullet enters his chest. He’s sort of glad he didn’t put a shirt on, because this would’ve made a right mess of it.

“Jesus, ouch,” he grumbles, looking down at the injury, and then up at the lone agent who shot him. “Ain’t no one every taught you how to knock? Who attacks a man in his own bathroom?”

Now, the bullet wound does hurt like hell, but Jack has grown a little numb to things like this over the years. He’s been shot more than enough times— his body is well-versed in healing itself from this particular ailment. A single bullet wound isn’t enough to faze him anymore. However, the poor field op who shot him seems a little caught off-guard that Jack hasn’t even reacted to being shot. 

“What are you staring at?” Jack teases. “I know I’m hot, fresh out of the shower and all, but you have a job to do. Frankly, this is unprofessional. My eyes are up here.”

So is his gun. He raises it to point at the agent’s head. He’s surprised there’s only one, but maybe they were trying to be covert— he figures it was supposed to be a stealthy one-hit kill kind of situation. The guy is in all black, dressed very inconspicuously, like he was expecting to walk right out of here after doing the job. Very funny.

Now, Jack doesn’t _want_ to kill this guy. However, he has absolutely no idea how else he’s going to get out of this— he can’t exactly make some great escape when he’s half-naked and soaking wet with a bullet hole in his chest. He lives on a busy street, so he would have nowhere to go and it would be, like, _ridiculously_ suspicious to walk around like this. He feels bad about it, he really does, but he pulls the trigger before the agent has a chance to shoot him again.

It’s a perfect shot, right between the eyes. The unlucky field operative instantly drops to the floor and starts bleeding all over the cream-coloured carpet (not Jack’s first choice of flooring, but he’s renting and he doesn’t care enough to ask his landlord if he can have hardwood put in).

It’s Monday fucking morning, he just showered, and now Jack has a bullet in his chest and a body on his floor. God damn it.

He leans over the body and feels around his pockets for a badge— there it is. It might be fun to feel like a cop for a while… he vaguely wonders if he could get any free shit with it. It’s perfectly shiny and he admires his own reflection in it for a moment. 

“I guess you can just hang out here,” he sighs after a moment. He’s talking to a dead guy— what the fuck has his life come to? “I’d throw you in a lake or something, but that seems like too much work. I mean… I’m sorry I killed you and all, but you did try to kill _me_ first, so fair is fair. Maybe you guys should figure out a better strategy next time.”

With that, Jack walks back into the bathroom to shower again, before he sets to work on packing his bags and getting the hell out of California. He figures it’s probably time to go home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well.....
> 
> had jack not gotten so attached to davey, he probably would’ve shot him in the face and escaped much more effectively. had davey not gotten so attached to jack, he might not be having yet another moral dilemma fueled panic attack. they’re really just ruining each other, aren’t they?
> 
> PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT :) what do you think will happen to jack in custody that davey is so afraid of? when will davey get his act together and realize how badly he’s been manipulated by his job? what will they do now????


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fbi interrogation is boring and lame, jack is too cool for this, and davey starts to question some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!
> 
> so. this chapter is a game of “spot the taylor swift lyric” because a line from folklore has been worked into it… bonus points to whoever finds it!
> 
> no warnings, except for like. blatant human rights violations. fuck the fbi.

"Can we be done yet? I'm tired."

Jack is handcuffed to a table in an interrogation room, and he's _bored_. This is stupid, and Spot is no fun. He flops over to lean his head on the table.

He's played along very nicely up until now, not even using any magic or trying to fight anyone. He spent the night in some weird little prison cell, down several flights of stairs from where they'd come in— this is obviously some kind of secret, secure FBI base— and he didn't even make a fuss when they took his mugshot. He did smile, though, as he always likes to look his best, but the agent taking his photo didn't seem to appreciate that. 

He got dragged over to this interrogation room this morning, and he's just been _sitting_. It sucks.

Spot is getting progressively more frustrated the longer they're here and that much is quite honestly delightful. He's just so short— it's remarkable how much rage he can build up in that tiny little body.

"You're the one who won't answer questions— you're doing this to yourself." Spot slams his manila folder shut on the table. "We'd be out of here a lot faster if you'd get your head out of your ass."

Jack laughs, still leaning on the table.

"Your questions suck. This is lame."

Exasperated, Spot stands up and begins to pace, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's awfully dramatic, if you ask Jack.

"Look... obviously neither of us want to be here, but I have a job to do and you don't really have a choice. If you won't talk to me, I have to hand you off to my boss." He puts his hands on the table and leans in like he's telling a secret. "If you think I'm an asshole, you don't wanna deal with the big guy, okay?"

Jack wonders if he should pretend to be scared. He simply raises an eyebrow.

"The big guy?" he asks, unable to stop the self-satisfied smirk that starts to spread on his face. "I mean... you're pretty small. Anyone would be big compared to you. Are you sure he's not an average-sized guy?"

Spot looks like he might scream. He takes a deep breath as he turns to head for the door. 

"I'm gonna take my lunch break," he says, turning back to look at Jack. "We're gonna try this one more time after lunch, and if you can't cooperate, the Spider is coming in to question you instead. I'll be back in an hour."

And then he's gone, before Jack can even ask what he's supposed to do if he has to pee.

Alright, then.

-

Davey decides to go into the office for the afternoon, once the panic attack has subsided, simply because he knows he'll drive himself crazy at home. He needs to unpack, but he figures it can wait until he's a little more calm.

He doesn't usually work weekends, but being on a case like this means putting in all kinds of overtime, so he may as well start now. He picks up coffee for himself and Spot on his way there, and the way the familiar barista knows his order and smiles when she sees him aids in the feeling that things could go back to normal.

He arrives to the office and notices that an intern has been using his desk while he was away— all his stuff is still there, but there's an unfamiliar young guy sitting in his chair and working away on his own laptop.

"Hey, sorry..." Davey feels bad to interrupt, but he'd sort of like to sit at his own desk. The intern pulls out an earbud. "I hate to kick you out, but I think I'm gonna need my desk back."

The guy's eyes go wide and he practically jumps out of Davey's chair.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I got told you wouldn't be back until tomorrow or Monday... I'll get out of your way, sir."

Davey nearly laughs— he's finally not the youngest person in the office, and he's getting called _sir_ for once. It feels a little weird. 

"Don't even worry about it," he chuckles. "I wasn't supposed to be back today, but I thought I'd pop in and start on some paperwork." He sets the coffees down, and extends a hand to shake. "I don't think we've met. I'm Davey Jacobs."

The fact that he introduces himself with the nickname Jack gave him catches him by surprise. He's always just been David, or sometimes _Dawid_ to his very, very Polish grandparents. He didn't used to like nicknames... this is weird.

"Jorge de la Guerra," the intern replies, shaking Davey's hand with a ridiculously happy grin. "I usually go by Jojo, but I'm not sure if that's professional enough for work."

"You've met Sean Conlon, right?" asks Davey with a giggle. When Jojo nods, he continues. "Outside of work, everyone calls him _Spot_. I've been trying to get it to catch on in the office."

Jojo laughs, and Davey instantly likes him. They're going to be friends.

"I feel like he'd kick my ass if I ever called him by a nickname to his face," says Jojo. Davey feels for him— he'd been scared of Spot at first too. "He's kinda intimidating."

"Who is?"

Speak of the devil... there's Spot himself, walking over with some kind of salad in hand, clearly about to take his lunch break. Jojo immediately blanches and Davey very nearly cracks up.

"Who isn't, in this office?" Davey says, deciding to save poor Jojo the embarrassment. "We're bonding over being newbies— everyone's scary."

Spot rolls his eyes and leans against Davey's desk.

"You're not even new, Mr. Undercover," he says, while shaking up his salad. He leans over to bump Davey with his shoulder. "I thought I told you to take the day off, what are you doing here?"

Davey shrugs and plasters on a smile. He's here to avoid having another anxiety-related meltdown, but no one needs to know that.

"I had nothing to do at home, so I figured I should come see how things are going." He hopes he sounds as casual as he's aiming for. "I brought you coffee. Have you started interrogating the perp?"

Jojo is still lingering nearby, probably enjoying the presence of the only other young people in their office, so Davey is careful to be as vague as possible about the case.

"I've been trying all morning," grumbles Spot. He gestures dramatically with his fork in his hand. "Nothing. He won't answer any questions— not even the simplest shit, like his name and date of birth. I'm going crazy."

Davey picks up his coffee off his desk and takes a sip. He's definitely not surprised that Jack won't speak, after what happened last night. He has a hell of a lot of questions, and Jack evidently has a hell of a lot of secrets. He wouldn't even know where to begin— he hasn't even told Spot just how bizarre last night was, from the way he must have hallucinated Jack stealing his gun through thin air, or the way Jack had apparently survived his jump out the window completely unharmed. 

"He doesn't need to talk without a lawyer, does he?" asks Jojo. He looks nervous to have jumped into the conversation, so Davey shoots him a reassuring smile— he was thinking the same thing. "I mean... sixth amendment and all. He has the right to counsel."

Spot is suspiciously quiet. Jojo reminds Davey of his first week in the office, when he'd been a little too eager and awkward as well, and Spot, along with other agents, had quickly shut that down.

"I wouldn't ask too many questions, kid," Spot snaps. While it comes off a little rude, Davey knows it's for Jojo's own protection— the details of this case are definitely above his pay grade and it's safer for him not to get involved. "It's a confidential investigation. This isn't a regular police station. Keep your nose out of it."

Jojo swallows and nods quietly.

"Oh. Okay. I'm gonna go... um, find somewhere to work. Sorry, sir."

And then he's off, scurrying away like a dog with its tail between its legs. Davey feels rather sorry for him, but he doesn't speak up. It's a tough lesson to learn, the odd way things work around here.   


The fact that Jack isn’t being provided a lawyer is a little concerning, though. Like, the FBI might not be regular cops, like Spot said, but surely constitutional rights should still apply… shouldn’t they?

He shakes his head to rid his mind of the thought. He knows better than to question his superiors— Spot knows what he’s doing. Maybe there’s some loophole when it comes to cases like this.

"I could try questioning Jack," Davey offers, after a moment of silence. "Like... not that he still trusts me or anything, but it could be worth a shot."

A worried frown crosses Spot's face, and it seems nearly like he swallows the words that are on the tip of his tongue.

"Sure," he finally says, stabbing a little too aggressively at his salad. "I've heard you guys get along pretty well."

Davey doesn't even bother to ask what he means by that. 

-

Davey is sweating like a hooker in church— a weird euphemism he'd heard Jack say once— as he stands outside the interrogation room.

Last night, he threatened to kill Jack, and then Jack threatened to kill him right back. This is bound to be weird. He's got his folder of questions, though, so if he sticks to the script, it should all be okay.

"Just don't let him derail it— you're trying to get answers," says Spot, pulling up a chair to watch through the one-way glass. "If he's being an asshole, you can walk out whenever."

He's been in a weird mood ever since Davey offered to go in, so something is clearly rubbing him the wrong way. He wonders if Jack said something about what happened between them— is Spot jealous? This is all just beyond ridiculous.

"Got it," Davey says, and then he's opening the door and laying eyes on Jack.

Now, some time ago, Davey had come to the conclusion that Jack would look extraordinarily sexy in handcuffs. As much as he'd pictured it, it certainly couldn't prepare him for the real thing. Jesus Christ. His hands are out in front of him, chained to a loop on the table, and he's leaning over onto his arm.

The strangest part... there's not a single scratch on him. He jumped off a third story balcony last night, and has nothing to show for it. Is he secretly an acrobat or something?

He startles a little when Davey walks in, but his surprised expression is quickly replaced with a grin.

"Well, if it ain't Agent Jacobs!" he says, sitting up and leaning back in his chair. Davey can't quite be sure if his tone is mocking or sincere. "Good to see you, buddy."

They're not friends, Davey reminds himself. He makes a point to not even smile back, he just looks down at his folder as he opens it.

"Aw, not even a hello?" Jack continues. "I know we had our differences last night, but we can still be pals, right?"

Davey sets his folder on the table but doesn't sit down. Strictly professional.

"I heard you were being difficult for Agent Conlon," he decides to open with. "You know, this could all be a lot more pleasant if you'd play along."

"Agent Conlon... Oh, Spot?" laughs Jack. "Say, I didn't know you guys were a workplace romance, it's cute! It's obvious that wanting me dead has _really_ brought you two together."

Davey inhales sharply.

"Agent Conlon and I aren't together," he says, keeping his voice as level as possible. "And I don't want you dead. No one here does."

Jack raises an eyebrow, as if he's amused.

"Look, I dunno what they told you when they put you on the case, but the FBI has tried to kill me a few times. I got shot like two months ago. Forgive me for being suspicious."

Davey hadn't known that. He was aware that Jack had been under investigation for a while, but he hadn't realized it had gone so far.

"Okay... well, I don't want you dead. I guess I can't speak for everyone else." Fuck, the script. He has questions to ask. He looks down at his folder. "Anyways... your real name isn't Jack Kelly, is it?"

Jack shrugs.

"Yours wasn't David Williams. I guess we're both liars."

"You know my real name now, though," Davey offers. He finally pulls out the chair on his side of the table and sits down. It's remarkably tense, but he hopes that acting as casual as possible might get Jack to give up some information. "What's yours?"

Jack stares at Davey for a moment and eventually shakes his head with a fond smile. He looks almost impressed that Davey has managed to reason with him.

"Alright, fair is fair." His unshakable confidence is almost disconcerting. "My _real_ name is Giovanni Vecchiarelli. Now we're even."

Just as Davey moves to write it down, they’re interrupted by a voice buzzing in through a speaker somewhere above them. It must be from the little microphone just outside the room. 

“Hey, Jacobs? You’re dismissed,” Spot says. He almost sounds nervous. “Director Snyder is here, and he’d like to question the perp himself.”

Davey’s stomach sinks. He’s got a very bad feeling about this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh!!!! 
> 
> a random note: while i mostly chose jack’s last name bc it has a cool ring to it, its meaning is also somewhat relevant! it means old/aged, which is surprisingly fitting.
> 
> please leave a comment!!! wtf is snyder gonna do? will spot ever be upfront with davey about his feelings or will he pout about it forever? what’s gonna be the last straw for davey to stop rationalizing how horrible his job is? who found the hidden taylor swift lyric?
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!! we’re finally gearing up to a climax of sorts 👀


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyone is having a bad day, and everything is (metaphorically) on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. so. some of you might hate me for this one..... not to spoil anything, but things are Messy and shit is about to hit the fan.
> 
> there’s a LOT going on here, so a summary will be provided in the end notes jffbdgxdgd
> 
> pls enjoy!!
> 
> (warning for police brutality and general fucked-upness.... as to be expected in the context of this fic)

"Développe one, two. Plié, attitude, _stretch_ , and close to fifth. Repeat that to the side, and then port de bras front and back. Do it all again to the back, but you'll tendu front for the port de bras and take your inside arm down, allongé, and then..."

Race is sort of following the barre combination, but he's pretty much zoned out. He hates adagio anyways, so his mind is wandering.

He's got a really, really bad feeling that something is wrong with Jack.

He was supposed to come to the theatre and paint sets early this morning, well before Race had to leave for ballet class— somewhere around 1930 or so, he picked up ballet, and he's spent the past century hopping from company to company and getting _really_ good. He's in a pre-professional program with the American Ballet Theatre right now, and he's simply hoping that no one realizes he's not aging as he moves up into the actual company.

Anyways, he was up early this morning to pester Jack about giving him another magic lesson, and he didn't even show. Race left for dance just after noon, and Jack was still nowhere to be seen.

That alone shouldn't be enough to worry— people get busy sometimes— however, Race is getting a very strong gut feeling that something might be wrong.

He can't explain it, but he's always had this kind of intuition, though no one ever believes him. He knew the moment Jack got shot in California— the feeling nearly made him vomit. All the way back when they were newsies, one of their friends died in the Refuge and Race could just sense it, although they didn't actually find out until nearly a week later. He can tell when things are going bad.

He might not be good at physical magic, making things appear or fly across the room like Jack and Medda, but he thinks this might be his own special power.

"Head up, Anthony. Pay attention." There's a sharp clap right next to his ear that jolts him back into the present as his instructor walks by and the music finally starts up. She stands there to watch as he starts the combination, as if she's checking that he actually listened to what he's supposed to be doing. " _Reach_ the extension... come on. Higher, that's it. Now close it... I know you can turn out more than that. Squeeze your glutes and rotate from your hips— what's going on with this sway back? Use your core!"

She gently hits his lower back with the ruler that she carries around specifically for this purpose. He winces a little, embarrassed, and tries to fix his posture as the exercise continues. At least it's a distraction... he supposes he'll have to worry about Jack later.

-

Davey can't hear what happening in the soundproof interrogation room, but it sure doesn't look good.

He's standing outside with Spot, watching through the one-way glass, and he physically flinches when Snyder slaps Jack in the face, making his head snap to the side with the force of it. Jack is a brick wall, though— he hasn't said a word to Snyder yet, despite the abuse. He just rolls his eyes as he rights himself, and keeps up that insufferably confident smirk.

"Snyder's awfully agressive," Davey mumbles, folding his arms over his chest. He's so, so deeply uncomfortable that it's almost making him feel sick. "I can't watch this. I'm gonna go upstairs and do some paperwork."

Spot turns to him and chuckles.

"This is pretty tame for the Spider. He roughs people up really good if it means getting answers. A slap in the face is nothing."

Davey absolutely cannot comprehend how Spot is _laughing_ about this. It's horrifying— Jack is helpless with his hands chained to the table, and Snyder is blatantly abusing his power.

"It's not right," he says before he can stop himself. He knows better than to question anything his superiors do, but this is starting to feel like the final straw of the awful things he can rationalize. "It's straight-up police brutality. How can you possibly justify this?"

"We're not the police," says Spot, with a shrug. "We make our own rules. It's an entirely secret investigation, so we can basically do whatever we want."

Davey feels his stomach turn. He doesn't really want to be a part of this anymore.

"That doesn't make it okay. Jack's a person too— this is, like, a human rights violation."

Spot rolls his eyes.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you've gone all soft over him. He's a criminal." He pauses and takes in Davey's expression, suddenly frowning. "You _like_ him, don't you? He told me you guys hooked up, but I thought he was just trying to piss me off... did it actually happen? Are you into him?"

Davey doesn't know what to say. Panic is rising in his throat. He knows he doesn't owe Spot any kind of explanation— they're not together and they never were— but this still feels strangely like he's being accused of something.

"It's not like that," he says, very uneasy about the stare Spot is giving him. "We only hooked up once, and we were drunk. It didn't mean anything. It's not... We weren't, like, a _thing_. He was just nice, and I was lonely. Shit happened."

"You seriously fucked _him_?" Spot asks, incredulous. "Your perp? Do you even have any morals?"

Davey is entirely taken aback.

"Morals!? You were just laughing at him getting beat up in there! Don't try to tell me _shit_ about morals."

"It's two completely different things!" Spot explodes. "You had sex with a wanted criminal!"

"Why do you care so much!?" Davey is quite honestly a little scared now, but he's sticking to his guns. This argument feels far too personal to actually be about the mission, so he might as well take it there. "You think because you kissed me once— which I didn't even _want_ — you have some kind of claim over me? We're _friends_ , Spot. You don't get to control who I sleep with."

Spot groans, clearly frustrated.

"God damn it, you're so stupid!" he shouts. "I've been dropping hints forever— I'm fucking in _love_ with you! I thought you knew! You kept leading me on and not letting it go anywhere, and then you had to go fuck other people too! What's _wrong_ with you!?"

Davey is stunned into silence for a moment.

Spot is in love with him. He's never mentioned that— how was Davey supposed to know? He'd taken all their playful flirting as a long-running joke, maybe a silly workplace crush— he's _seen_ Spot flirt with other people in exactly the same way. Until that kiss in the cafe, he had no reason to believe there was anything deeper to it. This isn't fair, to make it seem like he was cheating, when they were never even together in the first place.

He's been in toxic relationships before— he knows when he's being manipulated.

"How was I supposed to know that, Spot?" he asks, not making an effort to hide the hurt in his voice. "Don't act like I should've just magically realized it— you never _told_ me. I can't read your mind."

"It was so obvious!" Spot shouts, aggressive enough to make Davey take a little step back. "God, are you blind or just stupid? All I wanted was _you_ , and you couldn't even see it! I fucking _love_ you!"

Davey doesn't even know what to say. On one hand, he's terrified— he was already horribly anxious today, and being yelled at sure isn't helping. On the other, he's so _angry_. How can Spot possibly be so selfish? Davey doesn't owe him _anything_ just because of some stupid crush, and the fact that he's bringing this up at work only makes it ten times worse.

"If you love me, why are you being so _mean_?" Davey pauses, shakes his head, and can't help the bitter laugh that slips out. "This is really _fucking_ romantic, Spot. Way to make me fall for you— call me stupid again, why don't you? It really makes you seem like Prince Charming. If this is how you talk to me _now_ , I don't even want to know what kind of emotional abuse you'd pull if we were together."

This seems to get through to Spot. The anger finally slips off his face, replaced by something akin to remorse. For all Davey knows, it could just be another manipulation tactic, and he's not about to fall for it.

"David..." He trails off, and Davey takes yet another step away from him. "Come on. I wouldn't _abuse_ you, I— I love you!"

"No," Davey cuts him off. He's never been this mad in his entire life. He's shaking. "I can't believe I fell for your _nice guy_ bullshit— I thought I had a real friend! But you know what? I'm glad you're showing your true colours, Sean. You're an _asshole_. Take me off the case, fire me, do whatever you want— I don't care. _Fuck you_."

And then he's storming off, not even listening to Spot's next useless attempt to defend himself. He stops briefly at his desk, grabbing some of his stuff in case he doesn't come back here, and sets off towards home.

He manages to keep it together until he gets inside, but then he breaks down as he throws himself onto his bed, screaming into a pillow as he bursts into tears for the second time today.

Everything is _ruined_.

-

Meanwhile, Jack has decided that he doesn't like this Snyder fellow very much.

He's awfully handsy, he keeps hitting him and grabbing him by the chin to yell in his face about god knows what. Jack hasn't really been listening, he's bored out of his mind.

"Is there a brain in that head of yours?" Snyder asks, as Jack tunes back in to see what's going on. "Are you listening to me!? I know your _secret_."

Jack blinks up at him, unimpressed.

"That I'm _gay_?" he asks. "I mean... it's kind of old news. I've been out for a while. And, like, I'm technically bisexual, but it's been a while since—"

"No, you idiot!" Snyder roars, and Jack has to keep himself from laughing. "I know what you _are_!"

Jack raises his eyebrows, amused.

"Egyptian? Palestinian? Dude, I don't even know— I'm just sorta brown. I'm from Italy, I'm mixed, and my parents are dead. My mom was... vaguely ethnic. That's about all I've got If _you_ know, I’d love to find out."

The look of rage on Snyder's face is totally worth the punch in the nose that comes with it. There's a sickening crack— definitely a broken bone. Jack lets his head slump forward for a moment as he tries to breathe through the pain that he knows will be gone in a moment.

Wait... _shit_.

His nose is going to heal itself in a matter of minutes and confirm everything Snyder thinks he knows— it's no doubt that he's suspected the whole immortality thing. No one has explicitly mentioned it, but Jack is certain that's why he's here and why he's been under investigation for so long— his case file is probably labelled _IMMORTAL FREAK_. Snyder's about to get his proof when he watches Jack nose magically reset itself to look like nothing even happened.

God fucking damn it. Lord knows what's he's gonna try when he realizes that Jack can't be injured— Jack is getting a strong feeling he's about to be experimented on or something. This isn't good.

As much as he hates to admit it, he genuinely has no idea how he’s going to get himself out of this.

-

"Who the hell are you?"

Race has just arrived home to see an unfamiliar guy sitting on the couch, typing something on a computer. Could this day possibly get any weirder?

"Oh! Hi!" The guy looks up and almost seems surprised. He's got these huge, dorky glasses on, and a mop of dirty blond hair— Race has no idea what to make of him. "I'm Charlie. I'm a friend of Jack's, I'm not sure we've met before. You must be Anthony."

Slowly, Race nods. 

"Yeah... um, is Jack here too? Or did you just kind of show up? I haven't seen him all day."

"Your mom let me in," says Charlie, somewhat sheepishly. "Jack, well... he's not _here_ , that's for sure. He kinda, sorta might've gotten arrested last night. This is gonna sound crazy, but I was thinking you might want to help me get him out. It's, like, _super_ illegal, but if you're up for it..."

Race blinks. _What_.

"Dope," is all he ends up saying, after a moment of just sort of staring at Charlie in disbelief. "I mean... sounds fun. I'm gonna go take a shower first, but yeah— I'm down. Wait, how did Jack manage to get arrested? What did he do?"

Race obviously knows that the FBI has been after Jack for years and all the bullshit must've finally caught up to him, but he's not sure if any of Jack's friends are in on the family secret, so he'll have to play a bit dumb. He’s just Jack’s kid brother, who has no idea about any of his illegal doings.

"I don't really know what he did." Charlie winces. "It was kind of a weird situation, and I didn't really know what was going on, but there were FBI agents and _so_ many guns and, like, a lot of subtext that I think I was missing out on." He pauses. "I dunno, I'm pretty pissed at the agent who arrested him, so I figured I'd get some revenge. I thought if anyone might want to help, it'd be you."

Race nods yet again. He's sweaty, still wearing a dance belt because he didn't change at the studio, and now he's walked right into plotting a literal heist to get his brother out of jail. He's so fucking tired. Why can't anything in his life ever be normal?

"Yeah... okay." He drops his dance bag on the floor and finally kicks his sneakers off. "Cool. This is fine."

He walks into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water and shakes his head incredulously. He's so, totally kicking Jack's ass when this is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow.
> 
> to recap: race might be psychic, spot confessed his feelings in the absolute worst way possible, davey finally stood up for himself, snyder knows jack’s secret, and crutchie said acab. that’s what you missed on glee!
> 
> please please please leave some thoughts/reactions in the comments! i love hearing what everyone thinks!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some motherly advice is needed across the board, and everything starts to come together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!
> 
> sorry for the wait for this chapter, i don’t even have an excuse lol i just didn’t feel like writing for a while. but it’s here now!
> 
> we’re getting closer and closer to a climax, so you guys should hopefully start to see how all the smaller plots are going to intersect eventually. this chapter might read sort of as filler, but there’s also some important developments in there!
> 
> happy reading!

The evening finds Davey too upset to even cook himself dinner— which says a lot, considering that his kitchen is usually his happy place.

It feels as if his entire life has imploded on itself within the last 24 hours. He knew what he had with Jack could never last, but he's upset to lose him nonetheless. He's so beyond angry with Spot that it hurts to even think about it— he's such a fucking asshole. He'd _laughed_ at Jack being brutalized by Snyder, and then thrown that childish temper tantrum over Davey having the audacity to sleep with someone other than him. It's just ridiculous.

On top of it all, Davey is rather sure that Spot has firing power over him and could easily make up some kind of story about Davey's incompetence or misconduct to put him out of a job. After his manipulative, angry meltdown, Davey wouldn't put it past him.

Everything _sucks_. 

He ends up calling his mother as a last resort to try and cheer himself up, though he doesn't particularly feel up to conversation. He's missed her, and he's desperate for anything to take his mind off of the mess he's in. 

"David! My god, it's been ages!" She sounds so delighted that he's called that it makes him feel marginally better. "Are you finally home?"

He doesn't realize just how hoarse he's gone from all this panicking and crying until he tries to answer her.

"Yeah, I... I got home this morning." He clears his throat, trying to pull himself together. "I thought I'd be gone longer, so I'm glad to be back."

All he'd told her was that he had to go on a work trip and he wouldn't be able to get in touch. She's obviously aware that he works for the FBI, so she hadn't asked too many questions at the time, though she'd surely been worried.

There's a pause.

"Are you alright, darling? You sound upset."

Damn it, she knows him too well. There must've been just enough shakiness in his voice to set off her concerned mother alarm. After the anxiety troubles he'd had as a teenager, going as far as to spend a number of weeks in a psych ward, she's on the constant lookout to make sure he isn't spiralling again. 

"I'm..." He trails off. He doesn't want to lie to her, but he doesn't want to tell the whole story either. He sighs. "I'm not doing great. Bad day."

He can practically see that _look_ she always used to give him when things got bad. That worried, sympathetic frown, like she's heartbroken that she doesn't know how to help him feel better.

"Have you eaten at all?"

He knows she's probably got a checklist that she'll want to go through to make sure he's not having a total breakdown, and for once he's grateful for it. It's pitiful, but he hasn't been this upset in ages, and he thinks he might genuinely need her help.

"Not really," he mumbles. "I had breakfast, and a coffee around lunchtime. I'm not hungry."

She sighs.

"Your father's out with some folks from work, so I've got a night to myself. Why don't I come make you dinner, dear? Not that I don't trust you to take care of yourself, but I've missed you, and I'm a batty old empty-nester these days— I need someone to look after."

This finally pulls a laugh out of Davey. Les has only been moved out for less than a year, but he's been the baby of the family for so long that their parents are probably going mad without him.

"That'd be nice, Mama," he replies, feeling weirdly emotional about something finally going right today. "I'd really like that."

-

"So, wait... run that by me again. Jack is a magician on the side?"

"No," Race sighs. He's not sure why he'd even bothered starting to explain this now, but he'd figured it would eventually be important to bring up Jack's powers— and if this guy is willing to commit a federal crime to get Jack out of jail, he deserves to be in on the secret. "He's not fucking Criss Angel— it's _real_. He can do, like... telekinesis, moving shit around, and he can materialize things in his hands. I'm not kidding. And he can't die— that's why the feds were after him."

Charlie blinks.

"He has superpowers and he's immortal... am I on _crack_ right now? What are you _talking_ about?"

That's why Race has started explaining now. Maybe by the time comes to actually rescue Jack, Charlie might believe him. He's never tried sharing the secret before, but he figures it's so crazy that it might require 3-5 business days to process.

"Wait, I can prove it. I can do weird shit like him too." Race holds out his hand, twirls his fingers like Elsa from Frozen, and a neat little flame lights up in the palm of his hand. He's gotten a lot better at this skill lately. "See? Magic."

Charlie's eyes have gone wide, but he still doesn't seem to believe it.

"No, you've got a lighter or something. How did you do that?"

Race gently tosses the flame to his other hand. It doesn't even burn him anymore, he's gotten so used to it.

"With my mind! I'm not as good as Jack— he's way older than me, so he's got it all figured out. I'm still sort of new to all this."

Charlie just stares in awe as Race closes his hand and dissolves the flame. It's like it was never there, and his hands don't feel raw and achey like when he'd first started trying this. He figures he could make a much bigger fire if he wanted to, but the opportunity simply hasn't yet arisen. 

"You're serious? You just— Wait, it didn't even burn you!"

"Nope!" Race holds up his hands with a grin. "I mean, nothing can really hurt me. We heal pretty fast— the whole immortal thing, y'know."

" _Immortal_ ," Charlie repeats. "Right. So you... aren't actually fifteen? And Jack isn't my age?"

It's just now hitting Race how truly bizarre the situation is. He hasn't thought too hard about it in a while.

"Yeah, I mean, I stopped aging at fifteen, so... I kind of _am_ fifteen. Like, physically. But that was a good two hundred years ago. And Jack has been twenty-one for, like, almost seven centuries. He's _ancient_. At least he got to age long enough to be old enough to drink— I'm two hundred and twelve, but Mom won't let me even touch alcohol because she says it's bad for an _adolescent brain_."

"Your mom is immortal too!?"

"Oh... yeah. She's older than either of us." Race laughs a little at the absurdity of it all. "I don't know how her and Jack met, but they basically adopted me at some point in the 1890s. It's kinda crazy that we all found each other— makes me wonder if there's other people like us walking around."

Charlie's expression is unreadable— he seems shocked, confused, and disbelieving, which Race totally doesn't blame him for. Race decides to give him a moment to process it and stop rattling on.

"Okay..." Charlie says after a moment, obviously somewhat shaken. "I really appreciate you trusting me with the secret. I think... um, I think I need to go home and go to bed early tonight, and we can meet up in the morning, if that works for you."

Race laughs.

"For sure, dude. Just don't think too hard about the whole magic thing. That's when it gets confusing."

And with that, Charlie is out the door, and Race lets himself fall face-down on the couch. His life is so fucking weird.

-

"There's so many other jobs you could do, David. I know this one was your dream, but every time you talk about it, it seems more like a nightmare— you could quit and go to law school or something."

Davey pokes at his dinner with his fork. He's unloaded a slightly censored version of his troubles onto his mother, and she seems awfully concerned about him. She's always been worried about his career choice— he never seemed to be cut out for the FBI, but that's why he's been so insistent on proving people wrong.

"I don't know, Ma," he sighs. "I've only been in it less than a year. It could get better."

She shakes her head sadly as she wipes the counter. 

"It's okay to not like it, my dear. You can start a career and then decide it isn't for you— there's nothing wrong with changing your mind. You're only twenty-five."

Davey shrugs, staring down at his plate.

"I should stick it out a little longer."

Truthfully, he only wants to stay to make sure Jack is alright, at this point. He'd so stupidly bought into everything Spot told him for so long, but now upon seeing how much of an asshole Spot really is, he's starting to question all he's been told. Maybe he _isn't_ too empathetic— maybe he has normal, healthy emotions, and it's not a bad thing to care about other people, even ones who might be "bad."

He has no idea what he can do to help Jack, when everyone who outranks him seems intent on blindly accepting blatant police brutality, but he can at least keep tabs on the situation. Maybe there's something he can do— he momentarily considers tipping off Jack's family to start getting a lawsuit ready.

No matter what crime Jack actually committed, he certainly doesn't deserve the way he's been treated in custody.

"You're too good, David," Esther sighs. "Just don't lose sight of yourself, okay? It's easy to get caught up in a power trip in a job like this. Remember who you are."

Davey just nods, still unable to draw his eyes away from his dinner, totally caught up in his thoughts. 

He's sure he could find Jack's family. The information has to be somewhere in the database, and he's FBI-trained, damn it. He knows how to do his research. And, like, warning them that the investigation surrounding Jack is a little shady would be the morally right thing to do, wouldn't it? If he were to watch the abuse and say nothing, he'd be just as bad as Spot and Snyder.

He might get in trouble for it in the long run, but he's going to play both sides here. Fuck Spot, fuck Snyder, and fuck this whole fucked up system. Davey Jacobs is finally going to do what's _right._

-

"Ow, _shit_! What did you do _that_ for!?"

Jack is not having fun. As soon as Snyder realized his nose was healed, he went ahead and broke it again. This is ridiculous. 

"I knew it!" Snyder looks stupidly triumphant, and if Jack weren't busy wincing in pain, he'd be rolling his eyes. "You're a freak. You're not even human."

"Well that's a bit of a stretch," Jack grumbles, wiping his bleeding nose on his upper arm. "I might be weird, but I like to think I'm human."

Snyder flips open the case file on the table and points to something on one of the pages. Jack isn't going to try and read upside down, so he just raises an eyebrow.

"In 1964, you served dinner to the director of the FBI while he was in Paris on business. Do you recall that?"

Jack stares at him with an expression that he hopes says: _are you actually fucking stupid?_

"I'm twenty-one."

Snyder turns to the next page, and pulls out a photo. 

"1944. Troops about to land on Omaha Beach. This is you— you died on that beach."

Okay... this one is harder to deny. Jack hadn't even realized someone had been taking pictures, but there he is, looking just past the camera with a ridiculously serious expression on his face. It had been a tense day, he can recall— the men on that boat knew they were probably headed to their deaths, but that it might be for the greater good. There's really no way to describe that odd energy.

"Sure looks like me," Jack offers. "You photoshop that yourself? Nice work."

Snyder grabs him by the chin, yet again, which makes Jack roll his eyes.

"Fix your attitude, _now_. I know your secret— don’t play dumb. If you don't stop fucking around, I'll kill you once and for all."

Jack stares him dead in the eyes and says something he'll almost certainly regret.

"I'd like to see you try."

-

Race is drying dishes after dinner when it hits him— a wave of nausea so intense that he doubles over for a moment and has to grip the counter to stay on his feet.

Something bad is happening.

Fuck, something is happening to Jack, but he has no idea _what_. That's the worst part about this: it's such a vague, unsettling feeling that often doesn't really make sense. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it— Jack is probably off in some secure facility, even Charlie had said he wasn't sure of its exact location. God damn it!

"Are you alright, dear?" Medda asks, looking over to him with a concerned frown. She knows what's going on with Jack— Race filled her in over dinner— but she doesn't know about the heist plan with Charlie. She's remarkably levelheaded, and she seems confident in Jack's ability to get himself out of any sticky situation, so she's perfectly calm.

Race swallows the urge to vomit, rights himself, and forces himself to smile. 

"Yeah... just kinda dizzy." He waves a hand dismissively. "Overtired, I think. Class was hard today."

"Go lay down, then. I'll take care of the dishes." Medda takes the dish towel from him before he can protest, and ruffles his hair gently. "Get to bed early tonight. Don't worry yourself too much about your brother— he's a smart boy."

Race nods and forces a little laugh.

"You're right. I'm probably overthinking it. I need to sleep." He leans down to kiss her on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mama."

She catches his hand as he walks away and squeezes it gently.

"Goodnight, sweetheart. I hope you feel better in the morning."

As much as Race appreciates the sentiment, he really, really doesn't think he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..........big things are coming.
> 
> everything is starting to build in the same direction, and the only character we haven’t heard from is spot. what do you think is gonna happen???
> 
> please leave your thoughts/commentary below!!!! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> davey tries to make things right, and race channels his inner Mean Girls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back!
> 
> yes it was a bit of a wait for this chapter, but i put this story on pause to write a whole other fic! (also about javid and magic) if you like this fic, please make sure to check that one out, it's called "feels like i've missed you all this time" and it's a lovely little 5k to read in one sitting.
> 
> to catch up where we left off: davey finally solved his moral dilemma, crutchie knows jack/race/medda's secret, and snyder is a scary ass motherfucker. 
> 
> warning for this chapter: there's a pretty strong implication of some gory torture, though none of it is described at all. just some sinister dialogue and whatnot to lead up to it! snyder is a bitch.

"What if I just burn the whole building down?"

"What?"

Race blinks. He's not even sure why he suggested that— he's got a horrible tendency to speak far too impulsively. They're back to brainstorming this morning, and they don't exactly have much, so he's just throwing ideas out there.

"Never mind," he back-pedals, a little embarrassed. "That was stupid. Ignore me."

Charlie gives him an inquisitive sort of look, tilts his head, and then smiles gently.

"No... I get where you were going with that. A fire alarm would make a good distraction, and you _have_ these fire powers, so why not use them? As long as we make sure everyone evacuates, you could torch the place and destroy a _lot_ of evidence."

Truly, Race hadn't even realized that's what he was going for— he just likes burning shit— but that's actually a pretty good idea. Damn, he actually came up with something decent, and it feels good to be taken seriously for once.

"Oh. That _would_ work." He can't help but smile. "You're right!"

Charlie laughs and makes a note on his computer that reads: _bbq some pigs?_

"Honestly, Anthony, I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for. You've gotta trust your own ideas— they're good."

Not feeling like an idiot is a bit of a new sensation, but Race rather enjoys it. He likes Charlie— this guy is _so_ damn nice.

"Um, you can just call me Race," he offers, feeling almost giddy. "It's a weird nickname, I know, but that's what my friends call me."

Charlie definitely catches the implication that they're friends now, because he grins yet again and reaches out for a fist-bump.

"Alright, Race. I've got a weird one too— go ahead and call me Crutchie."

Race laughs a little as they bump fists, but before he can reply, he pauses and frowns. Something doesn't feel quite right. Without a word, he stands up and makes his way over to the open window.

"... _Agent David Jacobs, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I just wanted to have a few words about your son, Jack._ "

There's an FBI agent at the door, talking to Medda. What the _fuck_? He immediately ducks down under the windowsill and turns to Crutchie with wide eyes.

"There's a _cop_ outside!" he whisper-yells. "Like, an FBI cop!"

Crutchie's eyebrows shoot up, practically to his hairline.

"What!?" His expression sours. "Oh, if it's that short little backstabbing motherfucker, I swear to god..."

Race peeks back up over the windowsill. _Short_ would not be a word he'd use for this man. He's not NBA-player tall, but he's at least a head taller than Medda.

"Nope, not short." He pauses. "He's cute though... great face, and looks good in a suit— _shit_ , he's coming in! Why would she let him in!?"

" _Fuck_ ," Crutchie whispers. "Okay, this is fine. We'll just act natural. I'm just a cool twenty-five year-old hanging out with my best friend's teenage brother— that's normal, right?"

Race laughs and shrugs, darting from the window back to the couch, and turning on the TV to be inconspicuous.

"Totally. Not weird at all."

-

Davey is freaking the hell out.

He did _not_ expect Jack's mother to invite him in, with that twinkle in her eye like she knows something he doesn't. Is this a setup? Has he walked right into some organized crime household where he's about to get murdered?

Okay. He can do this. He's the friendly agent who's on her side, trying to get justice for Jack. What reason would she have to kill him?

"It's just up here, come on in." She opens up a door at the top of a few flights of stairs— a penthouse on top of a theatre, snazzy. "Just kick your shoes off somewhere around here. Can I grab you something to drink?"

Much like Jack's apartment, the place isn't _messy_ , but it's certainly lived-in. A painting hangs in the entryway, and Davey has to wonder if it's Jack's handiwork.

"I'm alright, thank you," he replies. He takes another look around and smiles. "You have a lovely home."

She smiles right back, and it's so warm and friendly that it nearly puts Davey at ease. That's awfully dangerous.

"Thank you, baby." It has to be some kind of inherent truth of the universe that an older Black woman calling you _baby_ is the most comforting thing in the world. "Let's sit in the kitchen. I'll just let the boys know we've got company— Anthony's got a friend over."

Anthony must be the little brother. Davey almost has the urge to snoop and peek into the living room, just to put a face to the name, but he's walking on eggshells here so he decides not to push it.

He stands awkwardly in the kitchen as Jack's mother— Medda Larkin, as she'd introduced herself— steps into the living room to talk to her other son. There's a hushed conversation that Davey doesn't catch a word of, and then she's gesturing for him to sit down at the table. This is happening. Holy shit.

"So... can I ask what brought you here?" Medda asks, taking a seat at the table while Davey does the same. "Jack's done something stupid, I take it?"

Now, Davey has a pretty good eye for when people are lying. She clearly knows more than she's letting on, but honestly, he doesn't care that much. He's not here to interrogate her.

"That's one way to put it," Davey replies, a nervous chuckle sort of forcing its way out. "He was apprehended two nights ago. He's been pretty stubborn in questioning, so I couldn't tell you much about what exactly he did— you raised a quick thinker. He tells a good story."

She laughs and nods, and Davey quite honestly isn't sure what to say next. He has no idea how to lead into his whole _I'm betraying my mission so that maybe you can get together a lawsuit and expose all the bullshit going on_ thing.

"He's a good talker with no common sense," she chuckles. "I can't say I'm surprised he got himself into something. I don't have anything to tell you, though— I haven't seen that much of him recently. He only just moved back to New York, I'm sure you know that."

Davey nods.

"Right. Of course. I haven't come here to pester you for information— to be completely frank, I'm not supposed to be here at all. I could get fired for coming to talk to you today." If he hasn't been fired already because of Spot's temper tantrum, that is. He's ignoring everything about work and he left his phone at home. "I wanted to... well, make you aware of what's been happening to Jack in custody, and the injustice I've witnessed over the past couple days."

-

Crutchie's eyes go wide.

Race and him are sitting in Race's room, eavesdropping via a FaceTime call with Crutchie's phone, that they left on the floor outside the kitchen.

"Is he on our side?" Race whispers, incredulous. "Holy _shit_."

The cop goes on to explain that the FBI won't give Jack a lawyer, and they've been physically assaulting him— which would explain how horribly ill Race has been feeling. He's here to tell Medda to get a _lawsuit_ together, even though it means he could get fucked over in the process. A _good_ cop— Race didn't think they existed.

"We could get him in on whatever it is we're planning," Crutchie eventually whispers. "I don't know how... but it would be good to have him. I mean— do you just wander in the kitchen for a snack and casually ask if he wants in? I don't—"

Now, despite being over two centuries old, Racetrack Higgins does in fact still have the underdeveloped prefrontal cortex and subsequent lack of impulse control of a teenager. He doesn't think about consequences, he just _does shit_. So he pushes himself up and claps his hands together.

"Can do. I'll talk him into it."

And then without another thought, he's off to persuade the poor guy to completely betray the FBI.

-

"So you can't die, huh?"

Snyder has a knife. Jack might scream.

This man is very clearly _insane_ and absolutely shouldn't have a knife. While Jack is aware that whatever he does won't kill him... it's still gonna _hurt_. He can't really move, strapped down to this chair, so all he can do is put on a hard face and pretend to be unfazed.

Last night, Snyder and a couple of goons beat the absolute hell out of him, but here he is now— fully recovered, like a brand new toy for them to play with. He hasn't figured out how to magic his way out of this, simply because he doesn't need the government getting their hands on _that_ secret too.

That little _Spot_ bitch was in here this morning, giving some goofy ass spiel about how Davey dropped the case and isn't coming back because he's disgusted that Jack is a freak, or whatever. Honestly, the guy looked like shit, all puffy-eyed like he was going through a breakup, and Jack has to wonder if he was only saying all that through bitterness over Davey dumping him. Good for Davey, Jack supposes— he shouldn't have to see all this or deal with Spot. It's probably better that he's off the case.

"Could you get to it already?" Jack snaps, sick and tired of Snyder's dramatic pacing. "Carve me up, do whatever the hell you're gonna do. It doesn't _matter_. I _can't die._ "

It does matter— Jack can absolutely still feel pain, though it seems to grow a little more dull with every century that passes, and he could get to the edge of bleeding out without ever actually dying— but saving face is more important than telling the truth. He's not giving Snyder the upper hand.

"Why so impatient?" Snyder chuckles. "We're in no hurry. That's the thing... you could be here _forever_ , my friend."

Jack will refuse to admit it, but that sends a little chill down his spine.

-

"So... you're a cop?" Race is leaning against the counter, chewing on an apple, while Medda glares daggers in his direction. "Sick. I got arrested once."

"Anthony," says Medda, doing her best calm _we have company but if we didn't I'd smack the shit out you_ voice. "The grownups are talking. Go back to your room, please."

Race rolls his eyes and keeps directing his conversation towards the agent— David? Daniel? Whatever.

"So I was with my friend, and we were setting little papers and shit on fire, right? Just because. But then this lady comes over— total Karen— and says we're _endangering a public park_ and that she's calling the cops! So then—"

"Race!" Medda snaps. She points in the direction of his bedroom. "Out. Now."

Race barrels on, tossing the apple casually between his hands.

"Anyways, all this to say... Jack came and got me so I didn't have to spend the night in jail. I owe him a favour, so I was thinking you might wanna help me bust him out of wherever you're hiding him."

The cop's eyes go wide in surprise, and Medda groans.

"I'm so sorry, Agent Jacobs. Teenagers just say things sometimes, you know? He doesn't really mean—"

"Oh no, I mean it." Race abandons the apple on the counter and moves forward to get in the agent's face a little. He'll do what he does best— be a mean, snarky teenager until he gets what he wants. Being stuck in this body can work for him sometimes, and he has a very profound adoration for one Regina George. "If you don't help me get my brother out of jail, I'll make _sure_ your boss finds out you were here, dropping all this confidential information about the case."

Good ol' blackmail. Oldest trick in the book. Race smiles fakely while Jacobs just sort of blinks, stunned.

"You'd get fired, wouldn't you?" Race continues. "Arrested, even. You're sharing government secrets. If you help us get Jack out, you can both fuck off somewhere where the feds won't find you. If you _don't_ help me, you'll probably rot in prison. It's up to you."

Race shrugs, playing it casual, like he hasn't threatened this poor man's entire livelihood. There's a moment of drawn-out silence, during which Medda just places her face in her hands, entirely exasperated. She probably wanted to get Jacobs in on the plan too, but Race's method is much quicker and to-the-point.

"Look..." the agent finally says. "You don't have to _threaten_ me. I'm on your side, okay? I... I want to help. I'll do what I can."

-

Davey cannot believe this is fucking happening.

He just agreed to help Jack's kid brother break him out of a secret FBI facility. This can't be real— the kid can't be serious.

The worst part? Davey is so horribly infatuated with and cares so deeply about Jack that he's _fine_ with this. Jack, who held a gun to his head and told him he _killed_ the last person who tried to arrest him— but also the same Jack who paints shirtless and dances around his kitchen and cover's Davey's eyes at the scary parts of horror movies. He's... confusing. But he's worth so much more than the horrible treatment he's getting from Snyder, so Davey doesn't give a shit anymore— sure, he'll team up with a fifteen year-old and betray the government to save his life.

When he puts it that way, it sounds ridiculous. Scratch that, it _is_ ridiculous. He might have to go into hiding, Witness-Protection himself somehow, all because he got in way too deep with this horrible mission, and he's not about to let Jack die at the hands of the very institution that he works for. For some reason, though, between Jack's sweetheart of a mother and wannabe vigilante brother, he's got a strange feeling that this will be fine. God knows how, but it'll probably all work out in the end.

Everything about this is already so fucked... how much weirder could it possibly get at this point?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh davey...... it gets so much weirder. you don't even know jack's secret yet.
> 
> next chapter: the plan starts to go into action!!! hopefully jack doesn't suffer too much in the meantime...
> 
> comments and kudos are always nice!!!!! pls let me know ur thoughts, ur worries, ur troubles, ur predictions,,,, i'm here for all of it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> race is the CEO of teenage angst, and the plan officially goes into motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy canadian thanksgiving everyone!! i can smell turkey cooking while writing this and omg i'm so hungry
> 
> anyways, here's a new chapter! sorry if it feels like the last couple chapters have sort of been dragging along-- we're so close to the action i promise!!! it's curently the start of midterm season for me though, so anticipate a bit of a wait for the next chapter lol
> 
> warning yet again for snyder being creepy and sinisiter, but no graphic gore or anything crazy! enjoy!!!!

"You're the hot neighbour! Holy shit!"

Davey can't help but quirk an eyebrow. As if this day couldn't get any stranger, he's in Jack's brother's bedroom, and there's a whole other person in on this plan, who apparently already knows him.

"I'm the _what_?" he asks, accompanied by a nervous laugh. "Um, have we met?"

The guy in question is rather short, with a mop of blonde hair and nerdy glasses that remind Davey of the ones he wore in middle school before he got contacts. He looks vaguely familiar, like they might've seen each other in passing at some point.

"Jack's hot neighbour!" he elaborates. "He talked about you _so_ much. I convinced him to be a homewrecker for you! Jesus— you're an FBI agent!?"

"Why does everyone think I'm married?" Davey groans. "There was no home to wreck, I swear to god. I'm single. I was just so bad at being undercover that he started making inferences. I take it you're a friend of Jack's?"

The guy leans forward and offers a hand to shake.

"The one and only Charlie." Once they both let go, he frowns. "I thought you were dating Spot— he got, like, unreasonably pissed off when Jack said you guys hooked up."

Okay, what? So much of this isn't adding up, and poor Anthony is just looking back and forth between Davey and Charlie, entirely confused.

"You know Spot? I'm not— we're not... anything. How are you even involved in all this?" He rubs the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. "I'm a little lost."

Charlie shrugs.

"Long story short, Spot blackmailed me into turning Jack in. I'm not the guy's biggest fan, he's a total self-centred asshole."

Davey rolls his eyes.

"Tell me about it. He's fucking insufferable."

Anthony grins.

"I want in on the hate-fest! He sounds like he _sucks_." He jumps onto his bed to sit cross-legged. "What's this about Jack being a homewrecker? Or... not a homewrecker? I'm not really following." He points to Davey. "You guys hooked up, huh?"

Davey can feel the horrible blush that overtakes his face. He's absolutely _not_ talking about sex with Jack's teenage brother, who's even younger than Les. It just feels wrong.

"It doesn't matter," he sighs. "I was a really bad undercover agent, that's all you need to know."

Anthony claps his hands giddily.

"Forbidden romance! I love it! You and Jack can run off into the sunset once we rescue him!"

Davey blushes a little harder because he honestly doesn't hate that idea. However, he's not sure Jack will be too keen on him after all this— it's kind of his fault they're even in this predicament.

"I've been trying to set them up for weeks!" Charlie chimes in. "I've never seen Jack even remotely interested in actually _dating_ someone, and then all of a sudden he's calling me to try and stalk Davey here's socials for him! The _heartbreak_ when we thought this beautiful man was taken... Maybe it could work out after all."

Anthony folds his arms over his chest with a satisfied grin.

"Jack hasn't dated in, like, a _hundred_ years." He shoots Davey a look. "You must be special."

That's an awfully dramatic metaphor. Davey just laughs, embarrassed, and shakes his head.

"Why don't we worry about breaking him out first? I doubt he'll even trust me— I _did_ lie to him for weeks and then try to arrest him."

"He'll get over it." Anthony waves a hand dismissively. "His last girlfriend got him arrested too and they still made it work. He doesn't hold grudges."

"Wait, _what_?" Davey and Charlie ask at the same time, which makes Anthony roll his eyes.

"Long story," he replies, ridiculously nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter— we have work to do."

Davey's starting to think he jinxed himself when he thought things couldn't get weirder. Unfortunately, though, Anthony is right— they should get down to business.

-

It's almost comical, Snyder's insistence on testing the limits of Jack's immortality.

In fact, it rather reminds Jack of how he imagines a 3rd grade science experiment might go— keep trying the same thing over and over, and continuously manage to be in awe of the results. No trace of the scientific method or relevant hypotheses— just pure, stupid wonder.

"Now watch this, Conlon," Snyder seems to brag, attempting some ridiculous flourish of that same goddamn knife he's been playing with. "Every time I cut him, it takes longer to close... I think something's happening."

Even Spot seems a little over Snyder's theatrics— just nodding stoically and constantly looking at his watch, as if he's got somewhere else to be.

"No shit," Jack snaps. "It's— _ouch_!— it's a metabolic process. It gets fatigued, just like my fucking muscles would if I were, like, deadlifting over and over. Are you _stupid_?"

Jack's words are slurring a little from the exhaustion and blood loss, which is horribly embarrassing. The wounds are taking forever to close, and he barely has the energy to sit up straight anymore. He feels almost _mortal_.

Jack's commentary is pointedly ignored by both Spot and Snyder.

"Weird," Spot says, sounding as if he absolutely could not care less. "That's interesting."

Immediately after that, his watch buzzes on his wrist. It's one of those "smart" watches that Jack hasn't fully wrapped his head around— he's a little slow when it comes to technology. The screen lights up, so he cranes his neck to snoop a little, and... _oh_.

It's a text from Davey. Very interesting.

Even more interesting is the way Spot's deadpan expression morphs into an attempt to suppress a smile as he reads the body of the message, which is in too small of a font for Jack to see.

"Uh, boss? I've gotta run upstairs and deal with some... _paperwork_ really quick," he says, which is clearly a cover for wanting to go text Davey back. He'd been so torn up earlier when he'd ranted about how Davey was leaving the case... this is an odd and suspicious development, in Jack's opinion. "I'll come back down when I'm done."

And then he's off. Jack is entirely baffled— what on earth did Davey say to make Spot completely change his tune? It had been a _very_ welcome development that they apparently broke up, so this is incredibly frustrating.

It's not even entirely a matter of jealously (though that may or may not be part of it)— it's purely the fact that Davey could do _so_ much better than that angry little asshole. God _damn_ it.

-

"Okay, here's what I'm sending him: _Hey_. _I'm so, so sorry I blew up at you yesterday. You were right. I should've never trusted Jack, and I totally understand why you were upset. I've had some time to think, and I honestly feel like maybe you and I could put this behind us and start fresh... go back to being friends and see what happens from there. We both said some things we didn't mean but I think we can move past it. You up for it?_ " Davey can barely get through it without laughing. "Do you guys think he'll buy it? I sound so fake."

Race is _thrilled_. For a man of the law, Davey is awfully sneaky and willing to play dirty. Well... that shouldn't be a surprise, considering that cops are notoriously evil... but Davey had seemed particularly upstanding at first. The further they get into this plan, the more his bitchy side is coming out.

"I think it's good," Crutchie says. "If he's as desperate over you as you made it sound, I think he'd take anything at this point."

They're officially sending Davey undercover in the opposite direction. He's going _back_ to the FBI, but with the sole intent of facilitating their still-developing plan. He'll do something along the lines of _accidentally_ giving Crutchie all the information he needs to hack into the computer system and shut it down. At some point they'll throw in a conveniently-timed fire alarm— although they haven't discussed the whole _Race is a magic pyromaniac_ thing with Davey yet— and hopefully the chaos of evacuating will lead to breaking Jack out and getting the hell out of there.

It's a work in progress, and a whole lot of it is relying on chance, but at least it's something.

"Okay... oh my god. I sent it." Davey logs out of his iMessage and frantically hands Crutchie back the computer. He apparently had to leave his phone at home so no one would know he was here, and now he's texting off a laptop, which is totally ridiculous. "Fuck. This means I have to go back to work tomorrow and pretend to like him."

Race giggles.

"Just pretend he's Jack! I mean, I don't know what you see in him, but... channel it."

"He's _sweet_ , okay?" Davey replies, and Race nearly wants to vomit. "If it weren't for the the criminal record and the fact that we almost killed each other, he'd be A-plus boyfriend material. At this point, he's like... a B-minus, but I'll take it."

God, love is obnoxious. Race has sworn it off for himself _forever_ and he can't claim to understand why anyone would ever go all mushy-gushy over some mediocre boy.

"Last time I saw him, he threw me across the room because I sat in his favourite chair," Race grumbles. "He's a bitch."

"Wow," Davey says, sounding so smitten that Race wants to punch him in the face. "He's really strong."

This is fucking unbearable.

-

" _Anthony Higgins_."

It's several hours later, Crutchie and Davey have left, their plan is significantly more developed, and Race is in trouble. All Medda has to do is say his real name in that tone of voice— he's in for it now.

"Yes, Mama?" he says, as sweetly as possible, while emerging from his room. "What's up?"

She's staring him down with a very no-nonsense kind of look. She folds her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow.

"Don't you dare play with me. You know _exactly_ what's up."

Race gulps. Okay... he _did_ interrupt her conversation with a literal FBI agent to threaten him into committing treason this afternoon. That's probably grounds for her to be... not exactly happy with him.

"I'm sorry?" he squeaks. "I'll never do it again?"

Medda sighs deeply, exasperated.

"You're grounded."

Race's eyes go wide. She can't _ground_ him— he's got shit to do! He's breaking Jack out of jail... surely she should be _proud_ of him for taking care of family. This is entirely ridiculous; it's not his fault he's eternally stuck as a teenager! He's been fifteen for long enough that _surely_ he should be some kind of honorary adult.

"Grounded!? Mom, I have plans tomorrow!"

"Not anymore, you don't." She raises her eyebrows as if she's daring him to say another word. He keeps his mouth shut. "Your brother is a grown up who can solve his own problems, like that silly FBI nonsense. You're not going anywhere _near_ wherever he is. You're keeping your ass inside this house. One of you under arrest is _plenty_ enough for one week."

"This isn't fair!" Race groans. "I'm a grown up too— I'm not _actually_ a teenager!"

"You're sure whining like you are," Medda says. She has absolutely no tolerance for his bullshit, so he's not sure why he bothered arguing in the first place. "If you want me to treat you like an adult, you'd better learn to act like one first. Am I making myself clear?"

Race knows better than to fight with her about it, so he simply takes the liberty of turning on his heel, storming back to his room and slamming the door behind him. He narrowly holds back the urge to scream when he hears the lock click— Medda has surely used some kind of magic on it.

 _Great_. Now he has to pull off _two_ stealth missions tomorrow.

-

Davey really isn't sure if this plan is going to work.

There's no time to waste, so it's going into effect tomorrow morning. He'll go to work, _accidentally_ download the virus that lets Charlie into the computer system, get Spot and Snyder into a meeting, and then wait for the fire alarm to go off. That's his part, and Charlie and Anthony won't tell him anything more— he doesn't blame them for not trusting him with every detail, since he was technically working against them until earlier today. However, he's not too sure what a computer genius and a fifteen year-old are going to get up to that'll get Jack out unseen.

He's not going to question it, though. The less he knows, the more plausible deniability he has should things go south. He's going to keep his nose out of every step of the plan that doesn't concern him, and then hopefully just quit his job in a non-suspicious way and get far, far away from anything to do with the FBI, forever. After witnessing all the corruption firsthand, there's no way he can keep ties with the organization at all— he's gotta clear his conscience and get the hell out.

 _I'll be back in the office tomorrow,_ he texts Spot. _I'd love to get back on the Kelly case, if you'll have me. Have you guys figured out wtf his deal is yet?_

Every text he sends leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He can't believe he's pretending to forgive the most self-righteous asshole he's ever met. Making conversation with him is painful.

 **Spot** : _there's def been some INTERESTING developments... i never technically took you off the case so you should be good. i'll try to get snyder to give you clearance for some of the info we found out, it's pretty wild_

Davey's eyes practically roll into the back of his head. He doesn't _care_ about whatever weird money laundering crime Spot thinks is "wild." It's probably boring.

He tosses his phone aside. He's back on the case and back on good terms with Spot— that's all he needed to do for now. In the meantime, he decides to start writing a mental draft of however the fuck he's going to apologize to Jack for getting him into this mess.

He has no idea where he should even begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tension is building............
> 
> davey still doesn't know the secret-- any predictions as to how he's going to find out? will snyder and spot tell him? will he hear it from another source, or even straight from jack himself?
> 
> leave a comment if u want!! i'd love to hear what you guys think is gonna happen next!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crutchie's computer skills come in handy, davey hates his job, and race is surprisingly good at lying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!!! happy almost halloween!!
> 
> i really hate online school and when i get too frustrated with it i write fic instead... which is why this update comes like 2 days after i posted a one shot on tumblr, and i have another one shot going up in the next couple days. i can't stop writing. also this chapter is longer than usual! almost 3k!
> 
> warning for this chapter: somewhat graphic description of jack post-torture (blood, injuries, etc.) and the some implied/sort of mentioned self-harm. it's not as bad as it sounds, but you can never be too careful with warnings! reach out if you need a more descriptive warning :)

Before Davey can even get to his desk in the morning, Spot is already ambushing him with a coffee and some awkward conversation.

"Thanks for apologizing yesterday," he says, and he gets _way_ too close, resting a hand on Davey's lower back as he hands him the coffee. _Ew_. "I'm glad you realized I was right."

Has he always been this self-centred? Davey must have been blinded by his jawline and his cute smile and not noticed what a douche he is— it's beyond embarrassing, looking back now.

"Of course," Davey laughs, committed to keeping up this act. He sips the coffee, and it's not even good. He _hates_ dairy milk, and this latte is almost definitely 2%. Of course Spot doesn't know his order— it's always Davey going for coffee runs. "You know better, I guess."

Spot grins, all satisfied with himself.

"I figured you'd come to your senses." He winks, and then heads off to his own desk. "I'll ask Snyder if I can tell you what we found out. Meanwhile, you've still got a lot of paperwork to do, logging everything you collected undercover. Get to it."

As soon as he's sure Spot can't see him, Davey lets his painfully fake smile drop away. He takes the coffee to his desk, since he feels a little bad throwing it out right away, but he knows he's not going to drink it. He takes a deep breath, rubs his temples, and wills this day to go by as quickly as possible.

"Hi Davey!" comes a voice from behind him, as he waits for his computer to start up. "You look awfully chipper today."

It's Jorge (Jojo?) the way-too-happy intern. As crappy as Davey's mood is today, he doesn't mind making conversation with literally anyone who isn't Spot, so he turns around with a smile that _isn't_ entirely fake this time.

"Good morning," he laughs. "I look like shit, huh? You wouldn't believe the crazy couple days I've had. I think I need to sleep for, like, a month."

"Oh, I wasn't trying to say you looked bad or anything!" Jojo's eyes go wide and the words tumble out of his mouth at a nearly ridiculous pace. "I was just— I mean, you seemed tired, and— I'm so sorry, you look fine! Great! You look great!"

The laugh this manages to pull from Davey is entirely genuine. It's like looking in a mirror, right at his younger self.

"It's okay, relax," he giggles. "No offense taken."

Jojo sighs, seemingly exasperated.

"I can't stop embarrassing myself. It's so bad, dude. I feel like everyone in the office thinks I'm stupid."

"I've been there," Davey sighs, offering a sympathetic smile. "It's tough starting out here." He pauses, and then figures he ought to tell Jojo the truth. The kid deserves it. "Can I let you in on a secret?"

Jojo lights up and nods, moving in a little closer so they can talk without being overheard. Davey looks around to make sure no one's listening.

"I'm gonna quit soon, if I can," he whispers. "I just don't think this is right for me. If I could give you any piece of advice: think _really_ hard about if this is what you actually want to do. You seem like you've got a good heart... don't let this job turn you into someone you're not."

Jojo looks a little stunned for a second, but then he nods quickly and earnestly.

"Thank you, Davey," he says, entirely sincere. "I think I needed to hear that. I've been thinking about doing law school instead... this internship seemed good to try, but I don't think I like it that much."

They're interrupted by one of the more senior agents shouting something about copies that Jojo was supposed to be making for her and how stupid little interns keep wasting her time. All they can really do is share one more quick smile before Jojo has to run off.

If anything good is going to come of today, at least Davey knows he helped someone get on the right track.

-

Race wakes up feeling like absolute _shit_.

Last night, he'd been in so much pain while trying to fall asleep that he could do nothing but writhe in bed. At one point, he'd been screaming into his pillow, feeling as if someone had been trying to cut him open and rip his insides right out of him— he's a little terrified of what Jack must be going through.

Now, his head is pounding, he's horribly nauseous, and he's exhausted down to his bones. He's not in excruciating pain anymore, though, so he simply makes it his mission to haul his ass out of bed and make the plan work, if wants this to end for both him and Jack. He'll have to take an Advil and hope for the best.

 _So... are we doing this?_ he texts Crutchie, before adding the important side note: _I'm grounded rn btw but I'll figure it out don't worry._

His phone buzzes moments later.

 **Crutchie** : _oh my god I didn't know magic immortal 15 year olds could still get grounded... that's actually so funny. I just sent Davey the file to let me into the computer system, so I'll figure out a building map and look at the security cameras to see how we'll get you in there once I'm in. Hang tight for a bit._

Okay. At least he has time to figure out how the hell he's going to sneak out without Medda catching him.

-

The holding cell that Jack hangs out in when he's not being interrogated is _boring_.

That's the long and short of it. He's hungry, his wounds are healing horribly slowly because he's being starved and whatnot, and above all: he's bored. He's sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall, and prodding at his own injuries with morbid curiosity— it's been a long time since he's had the uniquely mortal experience of physical pain that doesn't go away nearly as quickly as it starts. It hurts every time he digs his fingers into a gash, but he's somehow enticed to do it over and over again.

He's bled a lot. It's sticky, all over his clothes and his hands, and it's staining the floor around him. He vaguely wonders how it all works, the fact that he hasn't gone into shock or something. He's probably bled more than any mortal ever ought to, but it's just making him lightheaded and exhausted. It doesn't make any logical sense, but he supposes maybe logic doesn't apply to magic.

Is he going crazy? It almost feels like it. He hates to be alone with his thoughts for too long.

Last night he dreamt that he was stuck here forever. A century had gone by and he was still in this little room— no matter what magic he tried, he couldn't get out. Everyone had long since forgotten about him, the basement sealed off somehow, paved over once the FBI office shut down, and he was stuck. No one would find him, and yet he couldn't die, so he'd just starved and rotted down here until he was nothing but bones. He'd been outside of himself in that dream— watched himself shrivel into a skeleton, and yet persist, stubbornly unable to die.

He's losing his mind, he really is.

If he does get out of here, he's going to search harder for a way to reverse whatever magic his mother did to him. He's _tired_. He doesn't want to continue to drag this life out for centuries and centuries... he wants to be at peace and be _done_. He wants to find somewhere comfortable to settle down, grow into a old man, and let the circle of life take him naturally.

He momentarily considers that it would be nice to have someone by his side for that. He still misses Katherine greatly, and for a while he daydreams about growing old with her, all the grand things they wanted to do, but then he slowly finds a new face appearing in his fantasies— it turns out he's more hung up on Davey than he thought. He pictures them in a little cottage together, perfectly content just the two of them, and he scrubs at his eyes to try and erase the thought— it's stupid and impossible.

Poor Davey, who's gone back to his stupid job and his stupid boyfriend, who could do so much more than this sad little life has given him. He only gets one chance to be a young adult, and this is what he's wasting it on? Jack sincerely hopes he comes to his senses soon and leaves both Spot and the FBI far, far behind him. He's not made to sit in an office and let life pass him by.

Jack leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Just a few days ago, everything was normal. How did it all go downhill so fast?

-

"Good morning, mom!" Race puts on his absolute sweetest voice as he emerges from his bedroom. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Medda is at the kitchen counter, making herself a cup of coffee. She doesn't turn around.

"Good morning, Anthony."

Ouch... not even a nickname. He's still in trouble. This is going to be a little harder than anticipated.

He grabs some cereal and milk and starts trying to lay on the charm as he makes his breakfast.

"So I know that _technically_ being grounded means I can't go anywhere..."

"Not technically." Medda finally turns to frown at him, unamused. "That _is_ what it means."

"But—"

"So you're going to keep your _butt_ inside this apartment. No ifs, ands, or _buts_ about it."

Okay... time to start making shit up.

" _Mom_!" he groans. "Studio company auditions are in a month, and Miss Eloise said I could pick up an extra class to get ready for it! She said she _really_ thinks I have a good chance at making it if I put in the work."

Really, Race knows the audition will be fine. He's been training in classical ballet for almost a century, and he's well aware that his instructors think he's some kind of prodigy. In fact, he's more experienced than any of the ballet masters around these days. While it's a cutthroat audition process to make the studio's junior company, he probably has it in the bag. He doesn't need extra classes. Medda doesn't need to know that side of it, though.

" _That's_ where you were planning on going today?" She raises her eyebrows, and it looks almost like she believes it.

"Yes," he pouts. "I wanna make company _so_ bad. I _have_ to go practice." He pauses, and does his very best to act confused. "Did you think I was going _with_ Davey to break Jack out? What the hell is a fifteen year-old gonna do at an FBI base?"

There's a long moment of quiet, during which Race's stomach does nervous backflips while he silently prays that this is going to work. Medda finally pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.

"Racetrack... sometimes I don't know _what_ to think with you. I'd say it's a fair assumption that you'd try and save Jack yourself." She shakes her head. "I'm _choosing_ to trust you. Go to dance class, and if you're actually lying to me about some big scheme you're trying to pull off... whatever. If you want to be grown so bad, I'm not coming to save you when you get in trouble. That's on you."

He jumps right up off the ground in excitement and practically tackles her into a hug.

"Thank you! Okay, I've gotta go!"

And then he's out of there as quickly as possible, before she can change her mind.

-

The email from Charlie lands in Davey's inbox at 10:03am.

With a deep breath to calm himself down, he clicks on the deliberately corrupted file to start downloading it, and then tries to go back to working like normal. He's just typing up a bunch of the information they've collected about Jack— it's back to his usual routine from before going undercover, dealing with all the paperwork that no one else wants to do. Some of it is a little suspicious, like backdating an arrest warrant that was clearly made up _after_ Jack was already in custody, but he keeps his head down and does his work as inconspicuously as possible.

Thankfully, Spot seems busy over at his own desk, so he doesn't try to make any more conversation. Davey isn't sure he could deal with him right now.

Half an hour later, Charlie texts him:

_I can see you on the security cams! lookin real professional today, I like the tie ;)_

He laughs a little at his phone, but quickly tucks it away and schools his expression into something more neutral to avoid the potential for someone to notice and ask what he's smiling about. There's a serious tone to this office, most of the time, and Davey does his best not to disrupt it.

He looks up at the clock on the wall and reminds himself: after today, it's over. You can be done here and start over somewhere else. You're smart and capable and you'll find a job that's fulfilling and helps the world in some way and isn't so deeply, deeply corrupt. The smile threatens to return to his face at that notion, but he's quick to suppress it.

Just a few more hours.

-

Race leans over Crutchie's shoulder, watching the security cameras and trying to get a feel for the layout of the building. There's a lot of rooms to look at, so they haven't located Jack yet.

"Here's another angle of Davey's office," Crutchie notes. "That's his desk in the corner."

Race, however, is distracted.

"Oh my god," he says, pointing to the image on the screen of one of the hottest guys he's ever seen. "Jesus, look at this guy. Not to be vulgar, but I'd let him break me in half, I swear."

It takes Crutchie a second to process that, but he eventually gasps and lets his jaw drop in some mixture of shock, horror, and offense.

"Ew! That's _Spot—_ the one Davey and I hate!" He's quiet for a moment, as if he's still reeling from what Race said, and then adds: "You're fifteen! Oh my god! _So_ not appropriate!"

Race groans dramatically and flops over to lay on Crutchie's sofa.

"I'm _not_ fifteen though! I've been stuck in a fifteen year-old body for two hundred years. That's _two centuries of puberty_... dude, you gotta understand why I might be a little sexually frustrated."

Crutchie sighs and rubs at his temples, almost as if he's Race's frustrated parent.

"Okay... I get it, but I still don't wanna hear it. While your older brother isn't here, I'm gonna step in as his best friend, and say: don't even think about going anywhere _near_ Spot Conlon. Looks are deceiving— he's not worth it."

Race giggles and sits back up, before leaning back over Crutchie's shoulder to look at the screen again.

"Okay, he _does_ look like an asshole," he sighs. "Whatever. Let's find Jack."

And so they keep clicking through different security feeds— board rooms, offices, hallways, interrogation rooms, and _finally_ what look to be holding cells. At first it looks like there's no one even in custody, as the first five cells are empty, and then:

"There!" Crutchie exclaims, but his excitement quickly dwindles. "Oh Jesus, he looks _bad_."

There, in a grainy, black and white feed, is Jack. He's passed out on the floor and surrounded by an alarming amount of blood— if Race didn't know any better, he'd assume he was dead. There's an explanation for feeling so sick and disgusting, at least— this confirms that Jack is doing about a million times worse.

"I feel sick," Race mumbles, quickly retreating from where he's leaning onto Crutchie. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just—"

And then he's on his feet, making a beeline for the bathroom. The nausea that's been persisting for the past couple days has just punched him in the stomach, and he can no longer suppress the urge to vomit.

They've _gotta_ get Jack out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as much as i wanted to get to the actual heist in this chapter, there's just too much buildup to get through with everyone kind of off on their own mini-plot! the action will start soon, i swear!
> 
> as always, if you have any predictions/comments/thoughts/concerns i'd love to hear them! even just short little comments make me so happy :)
> 
> see ya next chapter! (unless you follow me on tumblr, which you should bc i post writing there too that doesn't always make it to ao3-- @thefactsofthematter!)


End file.
